




COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 







FRANK HOWARD HOWE. 

A Goilege WidoW'. 



NEW YORK * 

BELFORD COM PAN 

•PUBLISHERS; j 

•18 22 EAST 16 th ST j 


Torn at BELFORD -AMERICAN NOVEL SERIES N°4, 

LRED AT THE NEW YORK POST OFFICE AS SECOND CLASS MATTER, NOV- II?* 1889. 























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A COLLEGE WIDOW 

A NOVEL 



FRANK HOWARD HOWE 



NEW YORK, CHICAGO, AND SAN FRANCISCO 



BELFORD, CLARKE AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 




















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Copyright, 1889, 

BY 

Belford, Clarke & Co. 

£ 

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A COLLEGE WIDOW. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Isn’t that splendid, Jessica ?” 

"What ?” 

" That effect of sunlight falling through 
the clouds upon the green of the trees on 
College Hill yonder.” 

Miss Jessica Druce lifted her face from the 
pages of the book she was reading by the last 
rays of the setting sun, gazed a moment at 
the bit of light and shade in the landscape 
toward which her friend was pointing, and 
responded : 

"Yes, I dare say it is. May ; but it isn’t 
half so splendid as this account of the steeple- 
chase I’m reading. They’re half way through, 
and Bertie is behind. But I know he will 
win. He must . Oh, don’t distract me, dear, 

5 


6 A College Widow. 

until Fve seen this lovely horse safe over the 
last jump.” 

With this adjuration, the young lady cud- 
dled herself up in a new attitude of still 
greater enjoyment, and plunged again into 
the exciting incidents of her novel. Her 
companion, with a resigned “ Oh, very well, 
dear,” turned away and continued to gaze at 
the panorama which the sun was painting 
upon the opposite hill-side. 

She was a girl of medium height, quite 
young, and rather pretty. Her features were 
not regular, hut her eyes were noticeably 
fine. Her mouth was large but well-formed; 
and when the lips parted, a set of gleaming 
white teeth was disclosed. Her complexion 
was of that dusky olive tint which is so at- 
tractive when kept clear by health and out- 
door exercise. With her swarthy skin the 
girl possessed, strangely enough, a quantity 
of golden-brown hair, which she wore gath- 
ered loosely back from her low, broad fore- 
head and coiled carelessly at the back of her 
head. 

It was the face of a young girl, yet it already 
possessed a touch of power and of thoughtful- 


A College Widow. 


7 


ness. As she gazed silently upon the view, 
the alternating light and shadow that chased 
each other oyer College Hill seemed to be 
reflected in her face as thought succeeded 
thought in the busy brain. 

She continued to contemplate the view for 
some minutes, leaning the while against a 
stone pillar which was one of the ornaments 
of the Druce veranda. Presently the other 
girl threw down her book with a bang and 
rose with a sigh. 

“ Oh, that noble, magnificent horse !” she 
cried, crossing to where her companion stood. 

“ Did he win?” 

“Win ! Of course he did. No horse could 
beat him. My ! I wish I had such a horse. 
But he’s not the least bit like Dapple.” 

“ Oh, but Dapple is such a beauty, Jes- 
sica !” 

“Yes, but he hasn’t enough blood and go 
in him. If papa wasn’t such a goose about 
me and my horseback-riding ! Why, even 
Fred can beat me on that old cob of his.” 

“ And you two do race so horribly, Jessica! 
I really believe you’ll break your neck one 
day.” 


8 


A College Widow. 


“ Bah ! That’s not racing. Dapple couldn’t 
race if he tried — lie’s too fat. But you’re as 
big a goose as papa, you dear little May.” 

She threw her arm around the shoulder of 
the other, who responded by encircling her 
waist. As they stood thus together, they 
presented a very pretty picture. Perfect 
contrasts in style and color, each was an 
excellent foil to the other’s beauty. This 
may account for the fact that they had “ taken 
to” each other at once as schoolgirls at Vas- 
sar, and had remained fast friends ever since. 

Jessica Druce is some inches taller than her 
friend. She is quite slender, but lithe and 
supple. Her skin is very white, except where 
the roses bloom in her cheeks. Her eyes and 
hair are both dark. The latter she wears in 
a style similar to her friend’s, except that a 
minute and carefully trimmed “ bang” accen- 
tuates the lines of her forehead. She is a 
very handsome girl, with a beauty that is bril- 
liant because of the startling contrasts of 
color which it presents. It is the kind of 
face and figure that you invariably turn round 
to look at in the street. 

The girls are standing on the piazza of Mr. 


A College Widow. 9 

Jesse Druce’s mansion in the city of Syracuse, 
in central New York. Mr. Jesse Druce’s 
house is one of the show places of that thriv- 
ing town. It is built substantially of stone, 
and is situated some distance up the hill on 
James Street. It cannot be seen from that 
thoroughfare, however, as it stands some dis- 
tance back from the road in the midst of a 
well-kept lawn, and is surrounded by dense 
growths of handsome shade trees. 

The house is built in semi-Gothic style, 
and the veranda forms a little alcove sheltered 
between two walls in the lines of its jagged 
architecture. The view from it extends to 
the north and west across the valley in which 
the city lies, until it is finally cut by the hor- 
izon-line of the hills that protect the town on 
that side. 

Mr. Jesse Druce’s house speaks well for the 
depth of Mr. Jesse D race’s pocket, and would 
speak well for the excellence of that gentle- 
man’s artistic taste if he had possessed any. 
But this was not the fact. Mr. Druce was a 
retired salt-manufacturer, who, having begun 
life very poor and without education, had, by 
liberal exudations of that elixir sometimes 


10 A College Widow . 

referred to as the sweat of an honest man’s 
brow, contrived to amass a very considerable 
fortune. He was a hard-fisted man too, who 
knew right well how to keep the wealth he 
had accumulated. He had an abiding faith 
in and respect for this w T ealth, and he highly 
approved of himself as the possessor of it. 
He had a very warm affection for his only 
child, J essica, whose mother had died while 
she was a baby. And lastly, he stood in con- 
siderable awe of his neighbor, friend, and 
mentor, Reverend Ithuriel Rathbone, who 
had been his pastor for the last twenty years. 

From childhood Jessica had been consist- 
ently and persistently spoiled by her father. 
But she had fortunately inherited from her 
mother, together with that lady’s delicate 
beauty, a certain quality of mental hardness 
which had prevented her becoming the silly 
woman her father’s doting fondness was cal- 
culated to make of her. When quite young 
she had been sent to boarding-school, where 
she had been a great favorite because of the 
good gift of sweet humility with which nature 
had endowed her. At Vassar she had met 
the girl who now stands at her side, Marion 


A College Widow . 


ii 


Curzon. The physical affinity, indicated by 
their opposite styles, which had first attracted 
them to each other had fast developed into a 
strong affection, which had continued after 
they left school. Jessica had visited Marion 
at her home in New York. Afterwards she 
and her father had extended an invitation to 
Marion and her mother to spend a portion 
of the summer with them. Mrs. Curzon, who 
was a widow, possessed a certain amount of 
social distinction in exclusive city circles. 
She had hesitated long before accepting this 
invitation. Her reasons for finally conclud- 
ing to do so will appear as this story pro- 
gresses. It is sufficient to say here that her 
consent was not entirely due to her daughter’s 
entreaties, though these were not wanting. 

“ Jess,” called a voice from the room just 
back of the veranda on which the girls stood. 

“ Yes, papa ?” 

“ Won’t you go and ask Thomas to bring 
lights ? Me and Mrs. Curzon can’t hardly see 
to peg our points.” 

The young girl passed through the open 
window into a richly furnished room, evi- 
dently, from the bookcases which lined its 


12 


A College Widozv . 


walls, the library of the house. Here an 
elderly man sat at a table, playing cribbage 
with a handsome woman of middle age. 

Mr. Jesse Druce was a man of sixty years, 
distinguished, as to his personal appearance, 
by the quantity of jowl and waistcoat he was 
able to support. His face, which was very 
broad and fat, was covered as to the lower 
part of it by a stubby white beard. His fore- 
head, which had always been of noble propor- 
tions, now extended nearly to the nape of his 
neck, from which it was only separated by a 
narrow hedge of short white hair. His eyes, 
small and blue, looked from the midst of his 
great colorless face with a kindly twinkle. 
They seemed like oases in the immense 
Sahara of his cou-ntenance, across which his 
mouth wandered like a vast, irregular crevice. 

Mrs. Jerome Curzon, his vis-a-vis , was a 
very distinguished-looking person indeed. 
In her youth she had been a beauty, and she 
had not yet lost the simper which that beauty 
had engendered. A quantity of iron-gray 
hair piled upon the top of her well-shaped 
head gave her the air of a grande dame . On 
her rather prominent nose she wore a pince- 


A College Widozv . 


13 


nez without rims, attached to her corsage by 
a small gold chain. Through this she sur- 
veyed alternately her cards and the solemn 
face of her host intent upon his game and 
the pegging-board. Mrs. Curzon's features 
were not regular. Her complexion was dark, 
her mouth large, and her teeth were white like 
her daughter's. She smiled frequently, part- 
ly to show the even white teeth and partly 
because she was in a very good humor and 
found it necessary to punctuate her conversa- 
tion with a good deal of laughter. Mr. Druce 
seemed to be much in awe of his handsome 
guest. He was perspiring visibly in his efforts 
to entertain her. 

At this moment a slight scuffle and scream 
were heard from the piazza. 

“ What's that ?" called J essica, moving 
toward the window. 

“ Only me — and Nimrod," responded a 
man's voice from without. 

The next moment an enormous St. Bernard 
dog thrust his head through the window. He 
came up to J essica, wagging his tail by way 
of a salutation, and thrust his big muzzle into 
her hand. She immediately threw herself on 


14 


A College Widow . 


the floor and clasped the great dog’s head in 
her arms. Marion now appeared through the 
window, followed by a good-looking young 
fellow of five or six and twenty. 

“ I beg your pardon/’ he was saying as they 
entered. “ I didn’t intend to scare you, you 
know. I thought it was you, Jess. You’re 
both dressed in white, you see, and I couldn’t 
tell in the dusk. I knew J ess wouldn’t care. 
But it was a rather unceremonious way for 
you to be introduced to a great brute like 
that. Miss Marion.” 

Fred Rathbone was a typical young Amer- 
ican of good birth. He had the good looks 
of the type, with its close-cropped brown hair, 
regular features, carefully-tended mustache, 
and clear skin. There was nothing to distin- 
guish him from his fellows. He was simply 
a wholesome, good-humored young man who 
possessed a sound digestion, hated books, 
loved horses, dogs, and sport of all kinds, and 
exerted the intellectual part of him only so 
far as to “ get the hang of the street,” as he 
called it. He and a friend had been for some 
years associated together as a firm of stock- 
brokers in New York, and had not been, 


A College Widow . 15 

rumor said, unsuccessful in their voyaging 
upon the pools of agio. 

“ Good evening, Mrs. Curzon. Good even- 
ing, Uncle Jesse,” added this young man, 
depositing his tennis-cap on the table. 

“ Where's your pa, Fred ?” asked Mr. Druce. 
“ Ain't he coming over this evening ?" 

“ Yes, he's on his way now. The Major's 
with him.” 

“ When did lie come ?” put in Jessica. 

“ Came up on the evening train. And, 
dash it all ! I've got to go back with him 
next week. Never mind, we'll make things 
hum during the interval; won't we, Jess?” 

“ Hum !” queried the young lady, assum- 
ing a look of mock severity. “ What an 
expression to be used by a young gentle- 
man fresh from the metropolis ! I'm sure 
he wouldn't dare talk that way in New York; 
would he, Marion ?” 

“ Here, Thomas,” called the young gentle- 
man to the servant, who had just finished 
lighting the lamps, “ show Nimrod down to 
the kitchen, and take care of him for me 
until I get ready to go home. Then fix up 
the orchestrion in the music-room. The 


1 6 A College Widow . 

Major wants to have a dance with you, Jes- 
sica.” 

“ And lie’s such a delicious dancer !” said 
the young lady, turning to Marion. 

“ Yes,” assented Fred, a trifle pensively; 
“that and swimming are the only decent 
things the Major knows how to do.” 

“ He’s just my height, too,” continued Jes 
sie, in the same tone. “ Fred’s not quite 
tall enough for me. But the Major — oh, de- 
lightful !” 

Fred looked at her a moment, turned a 
trifle red, and then grinned. The elders had 
pushed the card-table aside from the moment 
of the entrance of the breezy young man. 
The cards had done their full duty in fur- 
nishing post-prandial amusement. Mrs. Cur- 
zon did not care for games, and just now 
she had her reasons for studying young Mr. 
Rathbone. 

“ Will you take me into the music-room ?” 
she said to him. “ There’s a certain waltz I 
want Thomas to begin with. I cannot re- 
member the name, but I shall know it when 
I see it on the cylinder.” 


A College Widow . 


17 

“ Who is it ?” said Marion to Jessica, when 
they had gone. 

“ Who is who ?” 

“ The gentleman who is coming with Mr. 
Rathbone.” 

“ Oh, Fredas partner.” 

“ Oh, yes,” vaguely. 

u And we all like him so much ! Isn’t he 
nice, papa?” 

“ A very good man he is, and a level-headed 
one too,” assented Mr. Druce, ponderously. 

“ Papa is a silent partner in the firm, you 
know,” continued Jessica. “He went in 
with them to please Fred’s father.” 

“ Seems to me,” observed Mr. Druce, “ you 
were a silent partner with the Reverend 
Ithuriel in that transaction, my dear.” 

“ He is a good deal older than Fred,” con- 
tinued J essica, ignoring her father’s remark. 
“ I suppose he is the real man of business in 
the firm. Papa and Fred put in the money. 
But Fred is very quick on the board, too. 
I’ve heard the Major say so.” 

At this moment a ring at the door-bell 
was followed by the entrance of two gentle- 
men. The elder, the Rev. Ithuriel Rathbone, 


1 8 A College Widow . 

rector of St. Luke’s, was a tall, courtly gentle- 
man with a sedate face framed in curly gray 
hair and side-whiskers. Besides his suit of 
black broadcloth, cut in the severest clerical 
fashion, the Beverend Ithuriel wore an ex- 
tremely High-church expression of counte- 
nance. He was precise both in his movements 
and in his forms of speech. He was the kind 
of clergyman who is universally regarded, 
both in his home and in his diocese, as a 
credit to the cloth he wears, and for whom 
his friends always confidently anticipate the 
highest episcopal honors. 

When greetings had been exchanged be- 
tween the Hruces and the Reverend Ithuriel 
and his companion, the latter was introduced 
by Jessica to Marion: 

“This is Major Vernay, May. We’ve been 
talking about you, Major. Do your ears 
tingle ?” 

Marion found herself looking up at a tall, 
gaunt gentleman, whose eyes were smiling 
pleasantly at Jessica as their owner answered 
her question. When the eyes turned toward 
her she noticed that they were blue and 
sharp, so sharp indeed that they gave her a 


A College Widow . 


19 


sensation as of gimlets piercing her brain 
through her eyes. Major Vernay was a man 
apparently of thirty-five years of age, whose 
dark-brown hair was just beginning to be 
sprinkled with gray. He wore a mustache 
and heavy imperial, and there was a certain 
leonine grace about him that Marion did not 
know whether to admire or dislike. 

“ Where is your lady mother ?” murmured 
the Reverend Ithuriel, taking Marion’s hand 
when it had been released by Major Vernay. 

“ In the music-room with your son.” 

“ Then would you have the kindness, dear 
young lady, to lead me to her ?” The rever- 
end gentleman propounded this query in the 
tones in which he habitually recited the les- 
sons for the day, at the same time extending 
his arm to her as if bestowing a blessing. 

“Come, Major,” cried Jessica, as the sound 
of waltz music floated in from the orches- 
trion. “ That’s our favorite, ‘ II Bacio.’ ” 

Major Vernay gave her his arm, and the 
two departed for the music-room, where they 
were presently joined by the others. Marion 
and Fred joined the dance, which had already 
been begun by Jessica. The door-bell rang, 


20 


A College Widow . 


and presently two young gentlemen, acquaint- 
ances of Jessica, were announced. While 
these were being presented, the door-bell 
rang again. This time the Dunbartons from 
across the street were the callers. They were 
a lively brother and two lively sisters, and 
needed no introductions. They knew every- 
body. The dancing continued and quad- 
rilles were introduced. 

Other young people dropped in and joined 
in the dancing. The Druce mansion was a 
sort of liberty hall and Jessica was very pop- 
ular. Her new friend from the city was also 
vastly admired — by the men. Another quad- 
rille was formed, and the Eev. Ithuriel and 
Mrs. Curzon were forced into service to fill 
up a set. The Eeverend Ithuriel transacted 
his part of the dance sedately, like a benig- 
nant bishop, while Mrs. Curzon went through 
her steps with the seductive grace of a bay- 
adere. 

“ You darling child,” she said to Jessica, 
later on, as they sat fanning themselves in 
a corner, “how delightfully you entertain, 
and what a lovely home you have ! I so wish 
dear Tom were here this evening.” 


A College Widow . 


21 


“ Ah, but he'll be here on Thursday.” 

“ You'll like my Tom so, Jessica darling. 
He's such a clever, splendid fellow.” 

“ Why, of course. How could I help it, 
since he is May's brother and your son ?” 

“ Darling!” whispered May's mother, squeez- 
ing the young girl's hand affectionately. 

A little while later Mrs. Curzon stood by 
her daughter's side. They were watching 
Jessica and Major Yernay, who happened to 
be the only couple on the floor, and who 
were in consequence enjoying their waltz 
with that zest which only a free floor 
and good music can impart to the skilled 
dancer. 

“They make a very handsome couple,” 
was Mrs. Curzon's comment. “ Is there any 
— anything between them, do you think, 
Marion ?” 

“ Oh, no, mamma, I'm quite sure not. In- 
deed, I know it couldn't be.” 

“ Why ?” 

“ Why ! Can't you see? Mr. Rathbone— 
Fred — is in love with her. And she — ” 

“ Yes ?” 

“ W ell, they've known each other all their 


22 


A College Widow . 


lives. I am sure it is intended that they 
shall marry. They love each other and — ” 

“ Who intends they shall marry ?” 

“ Why, they do, and I think their fathers 
do.” 

“ But Elinor Curzon intends quite the con- 
trary.” This thought wa« not put into words, 
but the widow's sparkling eyes, as they looked 
at the dancers through her pince-nez, were - 
quite expressive. 

“When Tom comes,” she said aloud, “I 
want her to like him. I expect that you will 
see that she does like him.” 

“ Mamma, why she already likes him very 
much, though she has never seen him.” 

“ Hem ! I do not mean that.” 

“ Mamma!” 

“Hush ! Here comes the Reverend Mr„ 
Rathbone.” 


A College Widow . 


23 


CHAPTER II. 

Ox Thursday morning the students from 
Rochester College came down to play the 
students of Syracuse College a game of base- 
ball. Each of these cities contains its full 
complement of baseball enthusiasts, inas- 
much as each city is the happy possessor of 
a professional baseball club. The games at 
Syracuse were attended by people from all 
circles of society. On the occasion in ques- 
tion a championship game was scheduled. 
Under ordinary circumstances the segment 
of Syracuse young-ladyhood which enjoyed 
baseball would have been present at the 
grounds of the professional club, but the col- 
lege boys were to play in a neighboring lot, 
and college boys mean, to young ladies in a 
college town, brothers and sweethearts ; and 
brothers and sweethearts are of course more 
important to the female mind than technical 
excellence. So all the pretty girls of Syra- 
cuse congregated on that vacant lot that 


24 


A College Widow . 


Thursday afternoon, together with many of 
the younger men and a goodly sprinkling of 
the elders of both sexes. 

Fred and Major Vernay called for the two 
young ladies at the Druce mansion, as had 
been agreed. They came with the Kathbone 
family carriage, it haying been also arranged 
that Mr. Druce and Mrs. Curzon should call 
for Mr. Kathbone. Mr. Druce was himself 
an enthusiast on the baseball question. He 
had succeeded in discovering the difference 
between a home run and a foul tip, and was 
rapidly mastering the difficulties of base-run- 
ning and sacrifice-hitting. The minister was 
not much interested in the game, but he 
was fast becoming interested in the hand- 
some widow who sympathized both with his 
assthetic tastes and with his High-church 
views. 

The game was in hot progress as the car- 
riage containing our young people drove into 
the grounds and took its position in company 
with a number of others containing most of 
the young people of the town, besides many 
of the elders. 

“ How’s it going ?” called out Fred to Ned 


A College Widow . 


25 


Dunbarton, who was standing near, surround- 
ed by a bevy of fair Syracusans. 

“Oh, we’re away behind,” was the glum 
response. 

Ned was' a college boy and, though not a 
player, an enthusiastic admirer of his college 
nine. 

4 4 What’s the matter ? Isn’t Charley Cam- 
pion pitching? Yes, there he is.” 

44 Yes, he’s pitching fast enough, but 
they’re knocking the leather off the ball all 
the same. There’s one little beggar in par- 
ticular — that third baseman ; he isn’t bigger 
than a peanut, but he’s made a home run, a 
three-baser, and a two-bagger, and only three 
times at bat.” 

44 AVhat does he mean?” inquired Marion, 
mystified by these technical expressions. 

Major Yernay explained them to her to the 
best of his ability. Fred and Jessica had 
meanwhile left them, and were mingling with 
the young men and women who lined the 
playing field in front of the clump of car- 
riages. 

44 Which is their third-baseman ?” demand- 
ed Jessica, eagerly. 


26 


A College Widow . 


“It’s that young fellow at the end of 
the bench," responded Neddy Dunbarton. 
“See, he’s playing monkey-shines with the 
tin dipper.” And he pointed to a young man 
on the players’ bench of the Rochester nine, 
who was balancing a dipper on the end of 
his nose. 

“ Oh, isn’t he lovely?” exclaimed Jessica ; 
at which Fred only shrugged his shoulders 
and lit a cigarette in a painfully careless way. 

By this time the Rochester nine were 
“out,” and proceeded to the field, while the 
Syracuse boys came in to perform their alter- 
nate duty at the bat. 

“It’s all up with our boys,” said Jessica, 
returning to the carriage. “ The Roches ters 
are nine to our two, and they say it’s mostly 
due to the playing of that little man over 
there on third base. Oh, see him !” 

At this point a huge batter of the Syra- 
cusans smote the ball fiercely. It sped rapid- 
ly along the grass in the direction of the 
young man referred to by Jessica. It went 
so viciously that Marion expected him to get 
out of the way of it. To her astonishment 
he made a vigorous run toward it, seized it. 


A College Widow . 


27 


almost turning a somersault in doing so, and 
threw it to a big young man who stood on a 
canvas bag not far from where she was. A 
great burst of cheering and hand-clapping 
followed this performance, in the midst of 
which the tall batsman, who had been run- 
ning in the direction of the player who stood 
on the bag and caught the ball, wheeled 
round and returned to the players* bench. 

“ By gash !** cried Neddy Dunbarton, when 
he had stopped clapping his big gloved hands, 
“ that was a great pick-up, eh ? That’s that 
same little duffer again.** 

Marion was standing up in the carriage. 

“ It can*t be — and yet — ** she was mur- 
muring to herself. “Yes, it is, it is !** she 
exclaimed, as the third-baseman, whose back 
had been turned to her, now faced round and 
assumed that intent attitude, with a hand 
on either knee, which seems to be de rigeur 
among baseball players. “Mamma, mamma !** 
she cried excitedly to Mrs. Curzon in the car- 
riage near by, “ it’s Tom — see ! — over there! ** 
Mrs. Curzon, oblivious of the sport, was 
engaged in conversation with the Beverend 
Ithuriel. She now raised her pince-nez and 


28 A College Widow . 

gazed in the direction indicated by her 
daughter. 

“ Well, I declare, it is Thomas,” she said; 
“I didn’t know he could play baseball.” 

“ Which is he?” inquired the clergyman, 
with interest. 

“ That one over there,” she replied, point- 
ing to the tliird-baseman. 

“Not him ?” put in Mr. Druce, who had 
been an absorbed spectator of the game and 
had taken in its good points with relish. 
“You don’t mean to say that little third- 
baseman is your son Tom we’re expecting 
to-day ?” 

Mrs. Curzon nodded and laughed. 

“Well, well,” continued the old gentle- 
man, “I want to know! Why, he’s — he’s 
immense — perfectly immense.” 

Mrs. Curzon nodded and laughed again. 

“ But lie’s thrown away up there at Roch- 
ester,” protested Mr. Druce. “You ought 
to send that boy to Yale — to Yale, ma’am !” 

Mrs. Curzon acknowledged the old gentle- 
man’s praises of her child with a pleased 
simper. 

“I should have sent him to one of the 


A College Widow * 


29 


larger universities if I had consulted my own 
wishes,” she said ; “ but his father willed 
otherwise. He was educated at Rochester 
College, and he wanted Tom to go there too. 
He*s just through. He graduates this month. 
And he is such a dear !” 

Marion had left the carriage, and with Jes- 
sica had joined the group of young people in 
front. 

“Tom, Tom !” she called across the field, 
at the same time jumping up and down and 
waving her handkerchief. 

The young man responded by a comic wave 
of his cap, then resumed the game and the 
paralytic attitude referred to above. 

When the game was over and the collegians 
had duly saluted each other, Marion and 
Jessica, accompanied by a little crowd of their 
friends, hurried across the field and fished 
out Tom. He was duly introduced by his 
sister to the others, who gave him a little 
ovation which he acknowledged with various 
blushes and grins. He was then escorted to 
the carriages, where he was received by his 
mother with open arms, by the Reverend 
I th Uriel with a benignant smile, and by 


30 


A College Widow . 


Mr. Druce with unfeigned admiration. The 
latter at once called him by his Christian 
name. 

“ Begad, Tom,” said he, “ that was a great 
stop and throw of yours in the fourth.” 

Young Curzon ducked and grinned, but 
said nothing. Marion was hanging on his 
shoulder, and his other hand was held by 
his mother. It was not difficult to see that 
this young man was the idol of two female 
hearts at least. He was not particularly hand- 
some. His figure was short and strongly 
built. He had just reached the age of citi- 
zenship. His round, red face was innocent 
of hirsute adornment. The hair upon his 
head was blond and closely cropped. His 
mouth was very large and filled with strong, 
white teeth. He had a habit of laughing 
much, which was largely due to nervousness. 
His mouth and his laugh were very like his 
mother’s. 

“Well, get in, Tom,” said Mr. Druce. 
“We must get home to dinner.” 

Then a little strife ensued between Mrs. 
Curzon and Marion as to which carriage Tom 
should ride home in. Fred offered to let 


A College Widow . 


31 


Tom have his place, but Mrs. Curzon was 
obstinate. Marion yielded, and, with a part- 
ing squeeze of her arm, Tom mounted oppo- 
site his mother. The carriage took its place 
in the procession of those that were filing out 
of the grounds. 

“When did you learn to play baseball, 
Tom ?” asked his mother. 

“ When the season opened this spring some 
of our fellows insisted I should go in for it. 
So I thought Fd try. I haven't done so 
badly. Baker, our captain, says Fve got a 
quick eye.” 

“You put up a great game to-day, Tom,” 
said Mr. Druce. As a director of the local 
professional club the old gentleman had 
picked up all the slang of the ball field, and 
was rather proud of his accomplishment. 

“ Thank you,” said Tom, modestly. 

“ Do you like it ?” asked his mother. “ It 
seems to be very rough.” 

“Oh, I like it well enough. But I like 
tennis better. That's my game.” 

At this Mr. Druce looked a trifle dis- 
gusted ; but Mrs. Curzon said gayly : 

“ Yes, I know you're a good tennis player. 


32 


A College Widow . 


And think, Tom, Jessica has gotten up a 
tennis-party on purpose for you. They’re to 
play all day to-morrow, and there’s to be an 
impromptu tournament with prizes. Mr. 
Druce’s tennis-courts are very nice.” 

“What are they, grass or dirt?” asked 
Tom of Mr. Druce. 

“Grass.” 

“ H’m !” said Tom. 

In the evening there was more impromptu 
dancing at the Druce mansion. Tom was a 
good dancer and devoted to the exercise. 
No other young people happened to come in 
on this occasion. So Tom was compelled to 
do all his dancing with Jessica, since it was 
“not good form to dance with one’s sister,” 
as he confidentially informed that fond young 
person. But Jessica and he danced very well 
together, and Jessica had quite taken to 
him. So everything wa$ jolly, Tom thought. 
Meanwhile, Fred Bathbone spent most of the 
evening on the veranda consuming the con- 
tents of his cigarette case, and consumed in 
his turn by conflicting emotions. 

“Don’t they look well together?” Mrs. 
Curzon murmured to the Reverend Ithuriel, 


A College Widow . 


33 


indicating Jessica and Tom by a slight mo- 
tion of her pince-nez. 

“They are indeed a very handsome cou- 
ple," assented the clergyman sonorously. 
The Reverend IthurieFs voice never quite; 
lost its professional twang, even in the most 
trivial conversations. “ But, my dear mad- 
am, that other couple over there claims my 
fancy in a much greater degree. Your sweet 
daughter and Major Vernay. 

Mrs. Curzon allowed her glance to rest 
upon the tall form of her daughter's cavalier 
for a moment. 

“Who is he?" she asked. “Tell me 
something of him. How did your son come 
to know him ?" 

“He saved Fred’s life some years ago in a 
yachting accident at Cowes, when Fred was 
making a European tour after he graduated. 
Fred had fallen off the yacht on which he 
and Major Vernay were both guests, although 
they were total strangers to each other. 
There was a high sea running at the time, 
and I should have lost my son then and 
there if this gallant stranger had not gone 
to his rescue. He threw himself into the 


34 


A College Widow . 


water and managed to get to Fred with a 
life-preserver before he was quite exhausted.” 

“You must be devoted to him?” com- 
mented the widow, when Mr. Kathbone had 
finished. 

“Yes, I am — we all are.” The Reverend 
Ithuriel spoke less like a minister and more 
like a man than Mrs. Curzon ever remembered 
to have heard him before. 

“Is he rich ?” she asked. 

The Reverend Ithuriel stared. 

“No,” he said, “he is not rich. But he 
and Fred are doing very well together, I 
believe.” 

“ IFm. And who was he ?” 

“ His father was a Frenchman, but he was 
for many years engaged in mercantile pur- 
suits in New York, and his son was born 
there.” 

“Ah, I see ; one of the French colony. 1 
never knew any of them, but I believe there 
are some very nice people among them.” 

“His mother was a Cuban lady. From 
her Major Vernay gets his Spanish face He 
looks as if he might have stepped out of one 
of the canvases of Velasquez., does he not ?” 


A College Widow. 35 

The widow looked sideways at the Reverend 
Ithuriel to ascertain whether that gentleman 
might not be intending to be humorous ; 
but, seeing that he was quite in earnest, she 
assented to his proposition with a perfectly 
sober countenance. 

“ The Major’s people were very rich,” con- 
tinued the clergyman, “and he was brought 
up to believe that he would inherit a great 
fortune. He was wild in his youth, I un- 
derstand. After he grew up he wandered all 
over the world for more than a dozen years. 
Sometimes he travelled at the expense of 
his father, but more frequently he preferred 
to shift for himself, as he expressed it when 
he told me the story.” 

“How did he get his title of Major ? He 
is too young to have been in our war.” 

“He earned that in one of his escapades. 
He is — or — was a Major in the Chilian army. 
He landed at Valparaiso just at the break- 
ing out of the war between that country and 
Peru. He promptly volunteered for the war 
and served in the ranks at first, but his su- 
perior education and character soon promoted 
him. He came out of the service a Major, 


36 


A College Widow . 


and the title has since clang to him. We — 
Fred and I — nse it as a term of endearment, 
rather." 

“And did he lose his money ? v asked the 
widow. 

“When his father died, three years ago, it 
was found that the fortune, if it had ever ex- 
isted, had vanished. The Major had tired of 
wandering, and had been for more than a 
year settled in New York, where he was look- 
ing forward to the idle existence of a gentle- 
man of means when this blow fell upon him. 
He had never acquired a profession, and his 
wandering habits had unfitted him for busi- 
ness. But he went to work at once, and suc- 
ceeded in getting into a large broker’s house 
in Wall Street, on a small salary. It was 
there Fred found him. Then this scheme 
for establishing a house of their own was 
engendered between the two, which my good 
friend Dr uce’s money has made successful. 
There, I think you have a complete outline 
of the Major’s story, so far at least as I am 
able to give it.” 

“ Thank you,” murmured Mrs. Curzon, 
sweetly. 


A College Widow . 


37 


“I like to see him with your sweet child,” 
continued the Reverend Ithuriel, critically. 
“ His dark, Spanish style makes an excellent 
foil to her blond beauty.” 

“Do you think so ?” queried Mrs. Curzon, 
more sweetly than before. 

But afterward she turned suddenly cross. 
The room, she said, was insufferably hot and 
stuffy. Seeing Mr. Druce near her, she 
called him and begged him to take her out 
on the veranda. So was a taste of gall mixed 
with the honey in Mrs. Curzon’s cup that 
evening, and so did the pricking of a thorn 
accompany the perfume of her rose of hope. 


A College Widow . 


CHAPTER III. 

The next morning proved happily one of 
those rosy-fingered daughters of June that 
cause the heart of the tennis-player to grow 
light in his bosom. By ten the nets were set 
on the Druce’s lawn, and the courts newly 
marked with chalk. The sets were to be all 
singles. In one court four young girls were 
to struggle for the lady’s prize. These were 
Marion, Jessica, Jane Dunbarton, and an- 
other Syracuse girl. In the other court the 
men were to play. Eight of them had en- 
tered, including Fred, Tom, Ned Dunbarton 
and three other Syracuse men, a college-chum 
of Tom Curzon’s, and, much to Fred Rath- 
bone’s surprise, his partner, the Major. 

“ I didn’t know you did this sort of thing, 
old man,” he said, laughing. “You have 
gone up several pegs in my estimation.” 

“ I’ve not done much at tennis lately,” 
said Yernay. “I used to be a fair hand at it 
some years ago in England. I’ll see what I 
can do.” 


A College Widow . 


39 


Luncheon was to be served at one o’clock. 
Long before that time the ladies’ sets had all 
been played. Marion had won all of hers 
very easily. Jane Dunbarton was next, while 
Jessica had not succeeded in a single one of 
her sets. 

“It never was my forte,” she pouted, half 
laughing at the same time. 

“But you play so gracefully, my sweet 
girl,” put in Mrs. Curzon, glancing at the 
“sweet girl” with both glasses and teeth. 
“ I am sure no one looks better in a tennis- 
court than you do, Jessica.” 

“Thank you,” said the latter, demure- 
ly. “It’s nice of you to say so, at all 
events.” 

“You had bad luck,” put in bluff Tom, at 
this point. “ I believe you can beat ’em all. 
Miss Jessica, if you only have affair chance. 
I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You and I will 
play Marion and anyone she chooses after the 
men’s match is over, and I’ll bet you. May, 
old girl, we’ll beat you.” 

“What will you bet?” 

“The usual thing — candy against cigar- 
ettes.” . 


40 


A College Widozv. 


“ Done. I choose the man who wins the 
men’s singles.” 

“That’s sure to be me,” said Tom, laugh- 
ing. “I see. You want to get out of the 
game.” 

“Why, Tom, you brazen thing !” cried his 
sister; “let me feel your bump of self- 
esteem. It must have grown dreadfully. 
You used to be fairly modest.” 

She made a dash at him. But he was 
away before she could reach him. Then be- 
gan a race around the lawn between the 
brother and sister which lasted for several 
minutes. Finally Tom allowed himself to be 
caught. His cap was pulled off and his close 
cropped head was energetically rubbed, — “to 
get the swelling down,” his sister explained. 
The young people applauded this little diver- 
sion heartily. In the struggle between the 
brother and sister Marion’s hat came off and 
her hair fell over her shoulders in a bright 
coil. 

She tried to twist it up again, but Tom, to 
tease her, kept robbing her of her hairpins, 
and she was forced to let it hang. Indeed, 
she gave her head a little shake of her own 


A College Widow . 


4i 


accord. She was not quite ashamed to have 
her hair seen, and she had no reason to be. 
It was the kind that looks well in the sun- 
light, since it had plenty of color. It was of 
the red, not the pale, gold shade. It was 
very thick and fine, and hung below her 
waist. That clever little toss of the head 
had shaken it out so that the sun had a very 
good chance at it. It seemed as if that 
monarch of the skies was a great admirer of 
it, so warmly did lie caress it with his bright- 
est beams. 

Several of the young men looked longingly 
at it, as if they would have liked to dispute 
its possession with old Sol. But they were 
too far off, as Marion and her brother were 
quite across the lawn. Neddy Dunbarton 
whispered “ By Gash !” and then stared at 
it with open mouth. His sister Jane re- 
marked sotto voce to her companion, Tom’s 
college-chum, “That was very cleverly done, 
wasn’t it ?” A pair of dark, Spanish-look- 
ing eyes lit up a trifle more brightly as they 
rested upon the pretty tresses ; and then, as 
Jane’s remark floated to their owner’s ears, 
he turned away to the game that was still in 


42 A College Widow . 

progress on the men's court. A slight smile 
curved his lips, and his shoulders were ele- 
vated just a trifle for a moment. Either 
Jane or Marion had afforded Mr. Vernay a 
moment of amusement. 

“Marion,” called Mrs. Curzon from the 
bench where she had been watching the 
game, “ go at once into the house and — dress 
yourself. Tom, give her her — things imme- 
diately.” 

“ Yes, mamma,” Marion called across the 
lawn. “ Tom, give me those things.” 

Tom complied, and came slouching across 
the grass, grinning broadly the while. 
Marion went quickly into the house. But 
she let her hair hang over her shoulders until 
she had passed in at a side door which was 
in full view of the lawn. The sun was upon 
that side of the house. 

Mrs. Curzon was annoyed. That her 
daughter should have had her hair pulled 
down before a lot of people, like a mere 
country hoyden, seemed to her so — so utterly 
impossible. Nevertheless, when Tom came 
up, she laughed again sweetly, pulled his ear, 
called him a “bad boy,” and resumed her. 


A College Widow . 


43 


conversation with the Reverend Ithuriel, 
which the episode had interrupted. 

By this time the last game that the men 
were to play before lunch was finished. 
About a third of the men’s games had been 
completed, and it was evident that the 
prize lay between four, Tom, his chum, Ned 
Dunbarton, and, again to Fred’s aston- 
ishment, Major Vernay. As for Fred, he 
was nowhere, to his great disgust, as he 
somewhat prided himself on his tennis. 
However, Jessica was very sweet to him dur- 
ing lunch. A fellow-feeling made her won- 
drous kind to her companion in defeat. To 
be petted by Jessica was a great treat to 
Fred. He did not get it often, and he en- 
joyed it proportionately. 

After the lunch had been disposed of, and 
a slight interval had been allowed for tobacco 
and gossip, the games were resumed by the 
men, this time on both courts. By five 
o’clock Tom and Vernay remained the only 
two unvanquished upon the field, and they 
started in to play the deciding set for the 
prize. It had been evident all the afternoon 
that Vernay’s length of reach was a powerful 


44 


A College Widow. 


factor in his continued success. His long 
arms and legs enabled him to cover his court 
with comparative ease. But Tom, though 
shorter, was more nimble. He seemed to be 
everywhere at once, made the most mirac- 
ulous returns, and was particularly admired 
for his brilliant volleying. However, his tall 
antagonist had the advantage in serving. 
His method was to lift his racquet to the full 
stretch of his arm and, striking the ball hard, 
to send it just over the net to a point a few 
inches within the end court-line, whence it 
shot along the ground, frequently taking a 
side turn, from some inequality in the turf. 
These serves were almost impossible to return, 
and while, on TonTs serving, the scoring was 
nearly tied, his antagonist won on almost 
every one of his. This superiority had its 
natural result in TonTs defeat. He was very 
much chagrined, for he belonged to that class 
of people who cannot bear to be beaten. 
But he swallowed the impulse to throw his 
racquet at Vernay, and went across to him 
and gave him his hand. 

“ Well, you’re a good one,” he said, with a 
laugh ; “ shake.” 


A College Widow . 


45 


Marion and the victor then played against 
Tom and Jessica, and were invincible. 
Afterwards Yernay played against both Tom 
and his sister, and beat them. This was too 
much for the young collegian. He said 
nothing, but his round, pleasant face took on 
a very glum expression. At the sight of it 
Marion exploded. 

“Your serving isn't fair, Mr. Yernay/' she 
cried, her eyes flashing and. a touch of bright 
red coming into either cheek. “ If Tom were 
as tall as you he would beat you, because he 
could then be on an equality with you in 
serving, and his general play is better than 
yours." 

"Hush, May," said Tom, in an angry 
whisper. 

"I think you are quite right, Miss Cur- 
zon," said Yernay, quietly. "My height 
does give me an undue advantage." 

And he said to himself : “ I'm glad I have 
the undue advantage, though, since it has 
enabled me to make you look so pretty as 
that for a few moments, young lady." 

“ I'll tell you," proceeded the latter, " I'll 
serve for both of you, and then we’ll see 


46 A College Widow . 

which plays the better. That's fair, isn't 
it ?" 

“ Quite." 

"Very good. Then I'll bet cigarettes to 
candy Tom beats you." 

“ Done ; only make it candy to candy ; I 
don't smoke." 

It was worth something to see the discrimi- 
nating way in which Marion managed her 
serves— how she sent soft bounders to Tom, 
and how viciously she shot the ball at his 
antagonist when it was his turn to be served. 
Partly by these means and partly because 
that antagonist entertained a sneaking desire 
to get the angry glitter out of the young 
girl’s eyes, it so happened that Tom finally 
won this set by a score of seven to five. 

“ Veni , vidi, vici ," cried Marion gleefully, 
tossing her racquet into the air. 

“ Exactly," said Vernay to himself, “ and 
I, too, came, saw, and — concurred." 

Then he advanced to Tom : “ Hail, Vic- 
tor !" he said, holding out his hand. Tom 
grasped it, looking a bit sheepish, but very 
much pleaded withal. And it was doubtless 
owing to this little incident that, when Mar- 


A College Widozv . 


47 


ion came to perform the duty which had 
devolved upon her of presenting the winner 
of the tournament with the racquet which 
was the prize of victory, she did so with a 
soft glance at him from the corners of her 
gray eyes, while a gentle flush mounted to 
her expressive face. And the winner, as he 
looked down upon her, could not tell, for the 
life of him, whether he liked her best angry 
or pleased. 

The next evening there' was a party at 
the Druce mansion, given in honor of their 
guests. Polite Syracuse was there unani- 
mously. Polite Syracuse was equally unani- 
mous in enjoying the festivities while they 
were in progress. But polite Syracuse retired 
from those festivities, after they were con- 
cluded, as divided in opinion as to whether 
it had really enjoyed them as the polite world 
finds itself to be everywhere, on similar festive 
occasions. 

Afterwards for a week there were riding 
parties and many drives, some picnicking, 
more tennis, and much dancing in the even- 
ing to the orchestrion music. At the end of 
this time Tom was to go back to college for 


48 


A College Widow . 


commencement. Then he was to spend a 
month travelling with his club, playing base- 
ball. It had been arranged that the Curzons 
were to spend the summer with the Druces 
at Long Branch, where Mr. Druce had rented 
a cottage. They were to take possession on 
the first of July. The Beverend Ithuriel had 
also consented to be of the party. About 
the first of August Fred and Major Vernay 
were to take a vacation, and they promised 
to be at Long Branch too. 

“ That is, well spend part of our vacation 
with you,” said Fred, when the question was 
being discussed. “ There’s that yachting en- 
gagement with Galton, you know, Major.” 

“ Yes, to be sure,” assented Yernay vague- 
ly, when thus appealed to. 

“Bah!” commented Jessica, under her 
breath. 

“ To be sure, we might take another week 
for our trip with Galton,” suggested Fred, 
again referring to Vernay. 

“ Or — er — we might put it off altogether,” 
submitted that gentleman, in a dubious tone 
of voice. 

“ Oh, no, that would never do,” protested 


A College Widow . 


49 


Fred. “ Galton would be angr y, and you 
know we can't afford to break with him. 
He's too good a customer.” 

“ Bah !” repeated Jessica, again under her 
breath. 

“As if,” she said to Marion some time 
later, when they were alone together, “ as if 
I didn't know all about that. As if I didn't 
know he'll be counting the days before he 
comes down to stay. As if I didn't know he 
won't miss a Sunday between now and then. 
And as if, when he gets there, he could be 
driven away again by any possible means. 
Bah ! I know their tricks and their man- 
ners. The impudence of these spoiled 
men !” 

The afternoon before Tom's return to Roch- 
ester a conversation took place between Mrs. 
Curzon and Mr. Druce, which that young 
man, could he have overheard it, would have 
been much interested in and somewhat per- 
plexed at, for reasons that will appear here- 
after. 

The young people were all out of the house. 
The day was quite warm, and the old gentle- 
man and his fair guest were taking advantage 



50 


A College Widow . 


of the breeze that blew across the shady ver- 
anda, as was their daily habit. In these tete- 
a-tetes the two had been getting more and 
more confidential. The shrewd widow had 
an object in view which she pursued steadily. 
It was the advancement of her son’s fortunes 
according to certain views she entertained for 
him. Guided skilfully by her the conversa- 
tion invariably veered round to the topic 
uppermost in her mind — Tom and Jessica. 
This subject was usually approached in some 
such fashion as on the present occasion. 

“ I’m so glad,” quoth the widow, “ you like 
my Tom. He is such a dear, isn’t he ?” 

“ A lad to be proud of, ma’am ; he is 
indeed.” 

“But you are not fonder of my son than I 
am of your daughter. That angel child ! my 
mother’s heart goes out to her.” 

The angel child, I regret to say, would not 
have felt complimented by this appellation. 
There was enough iron in Jessica’s blood to 
make her prefer the reputation of an imp to 
that of an angel. The prettiest compliment 
she ever remembered to have received was 
once when Fred told her she looked like a 


A College Widow . 


5i 


sprite in the moonlight. But Mrs. Curzon 
was happily ignorant of the angel child’s pref- 
erences in this respect. Her words had a 
visible effect on the old gentleman, which 
was more to the purpose. 

“ Thank you, ma’am," he said humbly. 
“ She’s been a good daughter to me.” 

Mrs. Curzon had never heretofore pro- 
gressed further than this point of a mutual 
admiration for each others’ children. Now 
she struck boldly into the middle of the affair. 

“ Have you any — particular views for her ?” 
she queried. 

“ Eh ?” 

“For her future, I mean — her marriage, 
you know.” 

“ No, I don’t know as I have. I intend 
her to be happy if I can bring it about,” was 
the old gentleman’s response. 

“ Then there is no engagement — no fixed 
arrangement about her as yet ?” 

“No, I don’t know as there is. There 
ain’t. To be sure me and the Reverend 
Ithuriel have sometimes speculated a little 
about Fred and Jess coming together when 
they grew up.” 


52 


A College Widow . 


“ Oh, you have speculated about it, have 
you ?” thought the widow. “ Then I’ll join 
the pool.” Mrs. Ourzon had had her ven- 
tures in Wall Street in her time. 

“ But of course,” pursued Mr. Druce, “ it’s 
got to he just as J ess says. She’s got to marry 
the one she wants to.” 

There seemed to be no doubt in the old 
gentleman’s mind that his daughter could 
pick and choose to suit her. She was evi- 
dently the queen rose to him at least. 

“ Mr. Druce,” exclaimed Mrs. Curzon, with 
a fine burst of feeling, “ I honor you for the 
devotion you show your angel daughter. I 
sympathize with you. I love my son as you 
do your daughter. My devotion to him urges 
me to throw aside that restraint which would 
deter some mothers, and to speak to you in 
his behalf. He loves Jessica. Have we — 
has he your permission to pay his court to 
her ?” 

Mr. Druce loved his daughter and his 
money above all things. He revered the Rev- 
erend Ithuriel before all mortals. But he had 
a very great respect for social prestige. He 
knew it was one of the few things his money 


A College Widow . 


53 


could not buy, and lie coveted it very greatly 
for his daughter's sake. Mrs. Curzon ruled 4 
in the loftiest circles of society, or so he 
believed. He was therefore not only flat- 
tered, but delighted at the widow's words. 

“ Has Tom spoken to you about this ?" he 
asked, cautiously. 

"No ; I have not given him a chance," was 
the lady's glib reply. “ But I can see it in 
every word and every action of his. For me, 

I can have no dearer joy than to see a union 
between our darling children consummated. 
Have we — has he your consent ?" 

“ Why — yes — I suppose so," said Mr. 
Druce slowly, trying to realize it all. “ But 
mind, he must do it himself. I'm not going 
to interfere. If Jessica cares for him, she 
shall have him. But if she don't — why o' 
course it's different," he concluded, rather 
lamely. 

“You dear, dear man!" cried the widow, 
pressing one of the old gentleman's great 
palms between both of her delicate hands. “ I, 
can of course expect no more, and I ask for 
no more. But I am sure Tom will win her. 
My noble, manly boy ! He must, he must." 


54 


A College Widow . 


Mr. Druce was at first much flurried by 
the effusiveness of the widow, who could not 
quite contain herself on learning that she 
should have his good-will, at least, if not his 
active cooperation. She had feared that he 
was committed to the Rathbone interest. 
They talked the matter over from various 
points of view for some time. Finally, after 
an extended exposition of Mrs. Curzon's ideas 
on the sacredness of the marriage contract, 
Mr. Druce’s countenance was seen to be af- 
fected by that peculiar atmospheric disturb- 
ance which passed with him for a laugh, and 
he said : 

“ You’ll have to look out for the Reverend 
Ithuriel, Mrs. Curzon. I know he intends 
Fred to marry my daughter. But if Jessie 
likes Tom best why I like Tom best, and 
there ye are.” 

“Far be it from me, Mr. Druce,” said the 
lady, with pious resignation, “to interfere 
with any of that good man’s plans. If it were 
only my own heart that would bleed I would 
respect his wishes, and withdraw. But it is 
not I who will suffer; it is my child. My 
bosom yearns over my first-born. I must 


A College Widow. 55 

fight for him, Mr. Druce ; I must fight for 
him.” 

Tears suffused the widow’s fine eyes. Mr. 
Druce was visibly affected. 

“ It does you credit, ma’am,” he said. And 
here the conversation ended. 

The next day Tom went back to Kochester, 
and Fred returned to New York, where Major 
Vernay had preceded him. Two weeks later 
the Druces, the Curzons, and the Reverend 
Ithuriel were installed in the Long Branch 
cottage. 


56 


A College Widow . 


CHAPTER IV. 

Long Bkahch cottages are very much 
alike. They possess the same genealogy, the 
same architectural features, and the same 
peculiar plumbing. The one Mr. Druce had 
rented differed from its neighbors only in 
this : it was larger and commanded a higher 
rent than some ; it was smaller and less 
expensive than others. It stood on a wide 
avenue, was surrounded by green lawns, was 
poverty-stricken in respect of shade trees, 
but was embarrassed with a wealth of awn- 
ings, while its windows and verandas com- 
manded a clear view of the sea. The Druces 
of course knew nobody when they arrived, 
and their social life would probably have 
been a dull one but for Mrs. Curzon. She 
proved a valuable auxiliary in this emer- 
gency. 

There had been a time when Mrs. Curzon 
was one of the gayest of those birds of pas- 
sage who make annual migrations to Europe, 


A College Widow . 


57 


But this had been while her husband was 
alive. Since his death her visits abroad had 
become rarer and rarer, until of late they had 
ceased altogether. For the past year or two 
she had spent her summers at one of the less 
fashionable watering-places. The reason for 
the change in her habits she did not care to 
discuss, but it was not remotely connected 
with the shrinkage in certain monetary values. 
Mrs. Curzon had many acquaintances in fash- 
ionable New York life, in which, indeed, she 
had been herself at one time a somewhat 
conspicuous figure. These acquaintances, or 
some of them, were now of service to her in 
securing for herself and her friends social 
recognition from the more exclusive circles 
of Long Branch society. 

One of the most notable of these friends 
was a certain Mrs. Fanny Leland, and it so 
happened that she occupied the cottage ad- 
joining that taken by Mr. Druce. Mrs. Le- 
land was very fashionable and very exclusive. 
Her husband, a millionaire of the city, used 
to say jokingly that she was too exclusive for 
him. She put up with him in winter, but 
she would not countenance him in summer. 


58 A College Widow. 

At all events the two never frequented the 
same resorts. 

At the Branch Mrs. Leland entertained a 
great deal, and as she took a fancy to Jessica 
at once, the young ladies were not long in 
forming a sufficient circle of pleasant acquain- 
tances to provide for all their social needs. 

Among the people whom Mrs. Curzon and 
her charges met at the house of Mrs. Leland 
was Mr. Alfred Pleasants — or rather the Hon- 
orable Alfred Pleasants. Mr. Pleasants was, 
and for some years past had been, a member 
of the lower house of the National Legisla- 
ture. He was so situated, politically and fi- 
nancially, that he expected to be able to retain 
his seat for years to come. He had inher- 
ited a small fortune from his father, and had 
multiplied this tenfold in the manufacture 
of plates, cups, saucers, and other crockery- 
ware in Trenton, New Jersey. He was a 
strict partisan and a shrewd business man. 
What he did not know about politics the 
Trenton potters did, and it seemed fair to 
believe that so long as he was their choice 
he might reasonably expect to retain his seat 
in Congress. 


A College Widow . 


59 


Mr. Pleasants was a short young man, of 
forty-five or thereabouts. He had a smooth- 
shaven face, prominent blue eyes, and long, 
curly black hair which had been thicker than 
it now was. Mr. Pleasants was not addicted 
to hair-oil, as he would have been half a cen- 
tury ago, but he spent a portion of each day 
with a barber, and Mr. Pleasants' barber was 
very liberal with his bay rum, so that in Mr. 
Pleasants' atmosphere there was always a 
suggestion of the hair- dresser. 

The congressman was a bachelor. He had 
been too busy to marry, though he had always 
intended to. He was fond of saying of him- 
self jocularly, that he was one of those un- 
fortunate mortals who never are, but always 
to be, blessed. 

Since he had been in Congress Mr. Pleas- 
ants had been in the habit of spending his 
summers at Long Branch. He was always 
accompanied by his private secretary, and 
the two occupied a pleasant suite of apart- 
ments at the West End, in which apartments 
clever political tricks were frequently turned 
for the master by the man. 

This secretary, Mr. Louis Razzle by name. 


6o 


A College Widow . 


deserves a word of description. In some re- 
spects he resembled his chief. There was 
the same smooth-shaven face and dark skin, 
the same thin, black, curly hair, and the 
same odor of bay rum. They were, too, of 
about the same age. But here the resem- 
blance ceased. Mr. Razzle was six inches 
taller than the congressman. He was thin 
to gauntness, whereas the other was inclined 
to be stout. He had black eyes, and his ward- 
robe was of the same gloomy color. He 
dressed invariably in black broadcloth, and 
around his neck wore a plain black-satin tie. 
Mr. Pleasants, on the contrary, affected as 
much color in his costumes as fashion would 
permit. 

Mr. Pleasants had for several years past de- 
voted himself to what he was pleased to call 
“the social racket.” In the winter at Wash- 
ington, and in the summer at Long Branch, 
he was assiduous in his attentions to the 
leaders of society. He had now, thanks to 
his dollars and his devotion, acquired a cer- 
tain place amid the ranks of the socially 
eminent. He was Mrs. Leland's very humble 
servant and admirer, and that good-natured 


A College Widow. 61 

lady had, after some hesitation, taken him up. 
That is to say, she accepted his attentions 
abroad and invited him to her “at homes ” 
at Long Branch, and in the city if he hap- 
pened to be there when she received. Grad- 
ually a certain intimacy had sprung up 
between the two. The lady extended to 
the gentleman such aid and assistance in 
his social excursions as was easily within her 
power, and the gentleman in his turn made 
himself as useful as possible in respect of the 
thousand little whims to which a woman of 
fashion is subject. 

“He’s a very handy little man, Elinor,” 
said Mrs. Leland, in speaking of him to 
Mrs. Curzon. “I didn’t know congressmen 
could be so useful. He is the first one I 
ever met. And do you know, dear, I was 
much surprised at first to find he didn’t have 
a brogue ?” 

Mr. Pleasants intended to get married. 
He had confided his aspirations in this re- 
gard to Mrs. Leland. He had also stated to 
her a difficulty under which he labored. He 
had, he said, put off the question of matri- 
mony so long, that now he found it very 


62 


A College Widow . 


difficult to decide upon the lady upon whom 
he should confer his hand and his affections. 
They all seemed to him really so very much 
alike. Whereupon the lady handed him this 
very good piece of advice : 

“My good man,” she said, “your trouble 
is easily cured. Go and propose to the first 
eligible young woman you meet. Of course 
she won't have you. You will then be cer- 
tain to want her very much. She will be- 
come in your eyes the one woman in all the 
world, and you won't think her at all like 
the rest.” 

But Mr. Pleasants had not followed this 
sensible suggestion, probably because Mrs. 
Leland had laughed so when she gave it to 
him. He was still fancy-free when our Syr- 
acuse friends came to Long Branch and so 
became a part of his life. 

Fashionable women, when they find them- 
selves getting beyond middle life, interest 
themselves in one of two things — religion 
and match-making. Mrs. Leland did not 
care for religion. When she met Jessica, she 
had, as I have already said, fallen quite in 
love with her. By way of expressing her 


A College Widow . 63 

affection she determined to marry the young 
girl to Mr. Pleasants. She was quite honest 
in this. The congressman was rich and in- 
fluential. And a wealthy bachelor of forty- 
five seems younger and more desirable to a 
fashionable woman of fifty than to a girl of 
nineteen who has not yet gotten the rainbows 
out of her brain. 

Mrs. Leland met with a check, though, 
from Mrs. Curzon, when she went to her for 
aid in carrying out her philanthropic idea. 
That lady at once put her in possession of her 
own views in respect of Miss Druce’s future. 
Mrs. Leland was not daunted, however, by 
this set-back, and it is not at all certain that 
she would not have thrown down the gauntlet 
and fought her friend Elinor a pitched bat- 
tle for the young lady in question if a more 
serious difficulty had not presented^ itself. 
Mr. Pleasants said to her one day : 

“Fve found that eligible young woman 
you advised me to propose to.” 

“ So have I — and you are to be envied.” 

“ Oh, then you approve ?” 

“Certainly — that is, if we mean the same 
person. Who is it ?” 


6 4 


A College Widow. 


“ Miss Curzon.” 

“H’m” 

“ I hope you approve. You will aid me ?” 
“Yes.” 

For, after all, what difference did it make ? 
Match-making is match-making, whoever the 
parties are. It would be as much fun to 
marry Pleasants to Marion as to Jessica. 
And she would have the latter’s future to 
meddle with, all the same; she would marry 
Jessica to some one else. 

“ What does Miss Curzon think of it ?” 
she asked. 

“ I’ve not spoken to her.” 

“ And her mother ?” 

“ I thought — you wouldn’t mind aiding 
me there.” 

"I will,” said the energetic woman. 

And she did. She broached the subject 
to her friend Elinor with promptness and 
despatch. Mrs. Curzon affected great re- 
pugnance to the idea. What ! sacrifice her 
darling child on the altar of Mammon ! Sell 
her only daughter to a man old enough to be 
her father ! Mrs. Leland listened to her for 
a few moments and then said drily, 


A College Widow . 65 

“Marion may come to care for him, you 
know !" 

“ Ah, well, in that case it would be differ- 
ent," admitted the widow. 

“ He’s a very decent fellow," Mrs. Leland: 
declared. “ He is a millionaire and not de- 
formed. Many girls would jump at the 
chance." 

“ Ah, but it's my daughter we are talking 
about," said Mrs. Curzon, “I cannot bear 
the thought of a mercenary marriage for my 
sweet Marion." 

Nevertheless when Mrs. Leland next met 
Mr. Pleasants, she told him that Marion’s 
mother was quite agreeable to his views. 

“Go to her and propose for her daughter 
in form. She may hum and haw a little, 
but she will consent." 

Mr. Pleasants acted on this advice prompt- 
ly. For he believed himself at last to be in 
love. - Having picked out his future wife, he 
found that Mrs. Leland’s prediction had come 
true — he wanted her very much. 

“ I have come," he said to Marion’s mother, 
“to beg of you permission to address your 
daughter. Our mutual friend Mrs. Leland 



66 


A College Widow . 


has led me to believe that my request will 
not be altogether disagreeable to you.” 

Mrs. Curzon simpered. “ I knew she 
would,” she was saying to herself. Aloud 
she said : “Your proposal, Mr. Pleasants, 
is of course a flattering one. But a mother 
cannot bring herself to face the thought of 
losing her only daughter quite with equan- 
imity.” 

It is not necessary to follow all the twists 
and turns which this artless creature made 
before she permitted Mr. Pleasants to ensnare 
her into an acceptance of him as a suitor for 
her daughter's hand. But before he left, her 
scruples had been overcome, and she had 
promised to speak to Marion on the subject. 
Indeed this suggestion came from her. 

“Having yielded to your entreaties,” she 
said, smiling, “ I will be loyal to you. You 
shall have my best aid and advice. And now 
trust me in this : I am sure it is best that 
I should speak to my daughter about this 
matter first, myself.” 

She dismissed the congressman graciously 
with a bright smile from all her teeth. Mrs. 
Curzon was neither a bad woman nor an es- 


A College Widow . 


c 7 


pecially selfish woman. She was acting only 
upon the instinct which has actuated us all 
since our ancestors first began to wiggle in 
the warm primeval seas — the instinct of self- 
preservation. To exist it was necessary to 
subsist. And no one subsists except at the 
expense of some one else. Mrs. Ourzon very 
rightly argued that, while she was preserving 
herself, she was preserving Marion also. 

The truth is, she had come to the end of 
her financial tether. The fortune which her 
husband had left her was all gone. She was 
deeply in debt. Appearances could not be 
kept up beyond the present summer. Her 
children must make wealthy matches, to save 
themselves as well as their mother. 

“ Marion, come and sit beside me here on 
the sofa” said Mrs. Curzon to her daughter 
the next afternoon. They were alone together 
in the mother’s bedroom. “Put your head 
on my shoulder. That’s nice.” 

She put her arm around her daughter’s 
waist and kissed the bright hair which lay 
just beneath her lips. 

“I wonder if you quite, quite love me, 
dear.” 


68 


A College Widow . 


Marion threw her arm across her mother’s 
bosom and shoulder and gave her a hug, 
kissing her neck at the same time. 

“I must talk to you about some serious 
subjects, my child.” 

“Yes, mamma.” 

Mrs. Curzon then told her daughter all 
there was to know about her financial condi- 
tion, entering quite fully into details. Before 
she had finished, Marion was sitting up, look- 
ing at her with a white, scared face and an 
interrogation point in either eye. 

“Oh, mamma, how you must have suf- 
fered.” 

Mrs. Curzon looked at her offspring com- 
passionately a moment and then said : 

“ I have some good news for you, my 
pet.” 

“For me, mamma ?” 

“ Mr. Pleasants wants you to be his wife, 
Marion.” 

u Me, mamma ?” 

“He is an honorable and upright man, my 
dear. He has formed a very sincere attach- 
ment for you, I know, from the conversation 
I have had with him. I have told him I 


A College Widow . 69 

would speak to you in his behalf. He is very 
wealthy and — ” 

She went no further. A young face, with 
pale, working features, was looking into hers. 

“ Oh, mamma, mamma, mamma !” 

A young form had thrown itself on its 
knees before her, and a golden head was 
buried in her lap, while the young shoulders 
were shaken with torturing sobs. 

“ There, my child,” said the mother, laying 
her hand on her daughter’s head, “you need 
not speak. I know.” 


70 


A College Widow . 


CHAPTER Y. 

After this nothing more was said on the 
subject between mother and daughter. The 
matter was quietly allowed to drop by Mrs. 
Curzon, and Marion naturally did not refer 
to it. The widow told Mr. Pleasants to wait 
— and hope. She said frankly that her daugh- 
ter would have to be given time to get used 
to the idea of marrying a man so much older 
than herself. The congressman winced a 
little at this, but was sensible enough to 
appreciate and accept the situation. 

Marion’s manner to him after this was much 
colder than it had been. But she was always 
polite. She said nothing to Jessica about 
his proposal. Indeed she hardly permitted 
herself to think of it. She accepted Mr. 
Pleasant’s attentions as formerly. She danced 
quadrilles with him when they were at a party 
together. (The Honorable Alfred never ven- 
tured beyond quadrilles.) She accepted his 
flowers just as Jessica did, and with these 


A College Widow . 71 

Mr. Pleasants was very generous. But she 
would not be alone with him, and she ex- 
changed with him only the ordinary civilities 
of conversation. Her dread lest he should 
approach the subject on which her mother 
had spoken to her was extreme, and it was 
quite superfluous. He had been counselled 
by Mrs. Curzon to avoid speaking to her 
until she should give the signal. The mother 
was quite aware that her daughter could 
neither be coerced nor cajoled into an en- 
gagement that was evidently so distasteful to 
her. She was still determined to pursue her 
purpose. But she trusted to the chapter of 
happy accidents to assist her to her end, and 
it will be seen that she did not trust in vain. 

Meanwhile she knew that the safest course 
to pursue was one of masterly inactivity, and 
this she counselled. The fond congressman 
was very much in love and very dubious 
about the issue of his suit. He accepted 
Mrs. Curzon’s advice, and acted upon it with 
the singleness of purpose which characterizes 
the drowning man in his clutch of the pro- 
verbial straw. 

Such was the status of the Honorable 


72 


A College Widow . 


Alfred’s love affair on the first day of August. 
On the next day Tom was expected, and the 
day after Fred was to come down for a two 
weeks’ vacation. The latter had not, by the 
way, quite come up to Jessica’s expectations 
in the way of Sunday visits. Fred had been 
to the Branch twice during the month, and 
on one of these occasions Yernay had ac- 
companied him. He had, to be sure, ac- 
counted for his other Sundays in a manner 
satisfactory to everybody but Jessica. That 
young lady tossed her head and refused to 
hear any explanations, and Fred was in de- 
spair, foolish fellow that he was. 

The truth is, Jessica was much more put 
out with herself than she could possibly be 
with Fred. She was annoyed at herself be- 
cause she was angry at his disappointing her, 
and she was very much more annoyed to find 
out that she could not help showing him 
how angry she was. She scolded herself be- 
fore the looking-glass for this unpardonable 
weakness, and declared, with a vicious little 
moue , that it was because “ she was such a 
ninnyhammer!” 

On the morning of the first of August Mr. 


A College Widow . 73 

Pleasants sat in the room at the hotel which 
he used for an office. On the opposite side 
of the square desk by which he was seated 
was the secretary, Mr. Kazzle. Both were 
occupied in the business of opening and an- 
swering the morning mail. Mr. Pleasants 
examined the letters marked personal, while 
the secretary attended to the official corre- 
spondence, which was by far the larger part. 
The open windows of the room looked out 
upon the ocean, whose glassy surface 
stretched away to the horizon line. Through 
these windows the cool breeze floated in upon 
them, laden with the pungent odor of sea- 
weed. 

Mr. Pleasants was reading a letter which 
appeared to interest him much, so rapidly 
did his eyes run from side to side of the 
sheet. When he had finished it he struck 
the desk so heavy a blow with his fist that the 
secretary started violently. 

“What’s the matter with you?” he de- 
manded, sharply. 

“ Nothing,” said Pleasants. “Here, read 
this letter, and I’ll tell you what to say.” 

He turned away, threw one leg over the 


74 


A College Widow . 


other, and gazed musingly out of the window. 
Presently he was roused by a tremendous 
blow upon the desk from the secretary’s fist. 

“ Razzle — damn it ! what do you mean ?” 
he exclaimed angrily. 

“ Humph!” said Razzle, shortly; “I did 
what you did — that’s all.” 

“ But I had a reason. I — ” 

f * How do you know I haven’t a reason ?” 
interrupted the secretary. 

He was staring at the open sheet before 
him with a look of blank amazement on his 
face. 

“ You look as if you’d seen a ghost,” said 
the congressman. 

“Maybe I have. What’s that to you?” 

“Well, don’t be so* cross about it. Have 
you finished the letter?” 

“Letter? no, but I’ll be through with it 
in a moment.” 

The letter in question was couched in the 
following terms : 

“Rochester, N. Y., July 30th, 18—. 

“ Hon. Alfred Pleasants. 

“Dear Sir: I learn by accident from 


A College Widow . 


75 


your brother, Mr. Pereival Pleasants, our 
worthy Mayor, that you are living at Long 
Branch. I know nobody else there, and I 
write to you to obtain certain information 
about a family at present residing in that 
town. I inclose a note of introduction from 
your bro., which will vouch for my respect- 
ability and good faith. 

“ A student at the college here yesterday 
married my daughter clandestinely. His 
name is Thomas Curzon. I know nothing 
against him personally, and if his family is 
all right Pm content. But Sadie is the apple 
of my eye. She is my only child, and if 
harm came to her I should never forgive my- 
self nor the person who brought it on her. 
You will appreciate my feelings in the mat- 
ter. I ask that you will let me know as soon 
as possible what is the status of the Curzon 
family, socially and financially . They are 
staying with a party by the name of Druce 
from Syracuse. Hoping to hear from you 
soon, I am 




“Yours truly, 

“Silas Sitgreaves. 


j6 A College Widow . 

The note of introduction was as follows: 

‘‘Rochester, N. Y., July 30, 18—. 

“ My Dear Alfred : 

“Mr. Sitgreaves, the gentleman who pre- 
sents this, is a respected citizen of this town, 
and I trust that you will he able to serve him. 
I do not know what his business is, but he 
asks for a note of introduction to you. 

“Faithfully yours, Percival Pleasants.” 

When the secretary had finished these doc- 
uments he looked up interrogatively. 

“I received another note from my brother 
in this morning’s mail,” said Pleasants. 
“Here it is. Read it.” 

The secretary read as follows : 

“Rochester, N. Y., July 30, 18—. 

“ Dear Brother : 

“I don’t know what old Sitgreaves wants 
of you, but I deem it prudent to advise you 
that while he is, I believe, an honest man, he 
is at the same time a very rough and violent 
one. He is a contractor here, and has con- 
siderable politic 1 influence. So I keep on 


A College Widow. 77 

the right side of him. I recommend 3^011 to 
do the same. 

“ Fraternally, Percival.” 

“ I want you to say to Mr. Si tgr eaves,” said 
Pleasants to the secretary, “that I know the 
people to whom he refers, and that they are 
very particular friends of mine. Tell him I 
vouch for them to the fullest extent. Damn 
it,” he continued, half to himself, “ I wonder 
what kind of a creature this daughter of his 
may be? She’ll be Miss Curzon’s sister-in- 
law, and I can’t say I like it — I can’t say I 
like it.” 

It was a pale and careworn face that Mr. 
Kazzle lifted to his chief as he was receiving 
his instructions, but a peculiar smile stole 
into it as he turned back to his correspond- 
ence. The Honorable Alfred went to the 
window and gazed out seaward for a few 
moments ; then he fidgeted about the room 
for several minutes more. Finally he tossed 
his hat on the back of his head and went out 
of the room. 

At about the same time that Mr. Pleasants 
left his hotel for a stroll, Marion Curzon was 


78 


A College Widow . 


in her room reading the following letter from 
her brother : 

“ Rochester, N. Y., July 30, 18— 

“ Darling May : 

“I am in very great trouble and you are 
the only one I can turn to. I don’t know 
whether you can aid me much, but I am sure 
you will do what you can. 

“I was married yesterday to a young 
woman living here — a Miss Sitgreaves. I 
cannot explain by letter. It all seems a hor- 
rible dream. But you shall know all very 
soon. 

“ I shall be in Long Branch the morning 
after you get this. I want you to meet me 
at the depot — alone. Keep all this from 
mother. It must be kept from her now. I 
hope it can be kept from her ^always. But 
I will tell you about it when I see you. Be 
sure and be at the station. The train gets 
there about eight o’clock, I think. 

“ Y our affectionate brother, Tom. ” 

As Marion read this letter the color rose 
to her cheeks and the light to her eyes. She 


A College Widozv . 


79 


read it oyer twice before she seemed quite 
to understand it. Then she held her fore- 
head in her hands for some minutes. 

“ Oh, Tom l” she whispered to herself at 
last, “ what can it mean ? Married, and keep 
it from mother ? It must be something dread- 
ful" 

She read the letter again. Then she held 
her chin in her hand for a long time, think- 
ing. But she could make nothing of it. 

“ I must go out into the air," she said. 
She put on a straw hat and went down stairs. 
On one of the lawns stood a large marquee. 
Its front, facing the ocean, was open to the 
breeze. Inside was a table, sometimes used 
for playing cards or chess, and several chairs. 
Marion spied the tent as she came out upon 
the veranda. It seemed to offer her seclu- 
sion and air at the same time. She de- 
scended the veranda steps and hastened tow- 
ard it. As she entered it a gentleman was 
coming in the gateway that opened upon the 
lawn from the avenue. 

Mairon sat down on one of the chairs in 
the tent and laid her head upon the table. 
She tried to think what this calamity was 


8o 


A College Widow . 


that had happened to Tom. Immediately 
she was aware of a figure that darkened the 
entrance to the tent. She raised her head 
and saw Mr. Pleasants. 

“ Do I intrude ?” he asked, gently. 

“ Yes — no — yes.” 

Marion rose and by a motion of her hand 
indicated that she would like to pass. 

“ I am very sorry that you feel unhappy,” 
he said, tenderly. “ I had hoped — ” 

“ Please let me pass,” she said, impatiently. 

“ — that the news from your brother would 
have pleased you.” 

She stopped at once. Then this man 
knew ! — and he would tell her mother ! And 
Tom had said the mother must not be told ! 
She looked into his eyes. 

“What do you know?” she heard herself 
murmuring. 

“ I beg your pardon?” he said, interroga- 
tively, not understanding her. 

“ My brother ? You were saying — ” 

“I have just heard of his marriage in 
Rochester to a Miss Sitgreaves. I wanted to 
be the first to offer my congratulations.” 

Marion sank back into her chair. What 


A College Widow . 


81 


should she do ? Did the whole world know of 
it ? Was it in the papers ? 

Mr. Pleasants was politic enough to see 
that something was amiss. Of course a clan- 
destine marriage would be disagreeable to 
both the mother and the sister, but he did 
not understand why she should take it so 
hard as this. 

“Congratulations? Yes, certainly; thank 
you,” Marion was murmuring vaguely. Then 
she rose to her feet and looked the Honorable 
Alfred straight in the eyes. “Will you tell 
me,” she said, “just what you know about 
my brother’s marriage, and how you came to 
know it ?” 

The Honorable Alfred told her both. 

“ Thank you,” she said, quietly, when he 
had finished. Then she tried to think. Oh, 
Tom, Tom! why had he placed her so in the 
power of her adversary ? 

“ Of course the marriage was sudden/' the 
adversary was saying, meanwhile, and that 
is always disagreeable. But my brother 
writes me that the young lady’s father is a 
very respectable person.” 

Oh, if she could only think it out ! Oh, 


82 


A College Widow. 


if she could only have knowledge to guide 
her now ! What was best for Tom ? But 
she must decide quickly — upon the instant, 
even. 

“Mr. Pleasants,” she said, at last, forcing 
herself to speak calmly, “ there is something 
I must ask you to do for me. You can do 
me a great favor, if you will.” 

“You could do me no greater favor than to 
tell me so,” he said, impulsively, advancing 
a step or two toward her. 

“Please don’t,” she said, looking down, 
with a cold, expressionless face that defied 
his penetration. 

He stopped. She was a queer girl, he was 
thinking, but a lovely one, a very lovely one. 
He would give the world to be able that 
moment to take her in his arms and shelter 
her from the trouble which weighed her 
down. 

“ Will you not let me aid you ?” he queried, 
almost pleadingly. 

“ You must aid me,” she replied, simply. 

He bowed and waited. 

“ My brother Tom,” Marion went on after 
a while, “was married the other day in 


A College Widow . 


83 


Bochester. I do not know why he married 
secretly. I do not know anything about 
the whole miserable business but this — my 
mother is not to be told of it. You must 
promise me that my mother shall learn 
nothing about it from you.” 

“ She shall not.” 

“ Thank you.” 

She started to move out. 

“Will you not let me speak to you now, 
Miss Marion, of a subject that is very close to 
my heart ?” 

Oh, Tom, Tom, why have you delivered 
me into the hands of mine enemy ? She 
stood still and waited. 

“ Your mother has told you what I hope ?” 

A slight inclination of the young girks head 
indicated assent. 

“Your mother desired that I should not 
speak to you of this and I have bowed to her 
will. But I feel now that I should be less 
than a man if I kept back what I feel — if I 
hesitated to tell you with my own lips that I 
love you.” 

Marion made no sign. 

“ Of course I appreciate the fact that there 




8 4 


A College Widow . 


is great disparity in our ages. Your mother 
has called my attention to that,” a little bit- 
terly. “ That may be an obstacle now, but I 
do not believe it will always seem so.” 

He got no encouragement from the rigid 
figure and pale face, but he pursued his pur- 
pose doggedly. 

“Your brother,” he continued, “I am 
quite sure I can serve him at this time.” 

She raised her face at last. 

“I do not know precisely what his diffi- 
culty is,” pursued the astute congressman, 
“ but I believe he has been caught in some 
skilfully-spread snare.” 

Her eyes looked thanks. 

“ I cannot imagine his marrying as he has 
of his own free will. I know his mother had 
other views for him; and I should think 
those views must have been acceptable to 
him. I am sure your brother has been the 
victim of some fraud or other wrong.” 

The beautiful blue-gray eyes continued to 
beam gratitude upon him. 

“ I want you to let me be your ally in this. 
I feel sure that I can circumvent the fraud, 
whatever it is. Will you let me try?” 


A College Widow . 


85 


“ I shall not — know how — to thank you,” 
she said, brokenly. 

“You have already thanked me,” he re- 
sponded. 

She moved toward him hesitatingly. 

“AVill you let me pass now, please?” she 
asked, still with the downcast, impenetrable 
look in her face and eyes. 

“And your brother?” he demanded. 
“When will he be here?” 

“To-morrow.” 

“ And you will tell him that I am his 
friend?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Ask him to come and see me.” 

“ I will.” 

There was a short pause. 

“ Please let me go,” she said. 

He fell back awkwardly. She passed him 
quickly and sped rapidly up the piazza steps 
and into the house. The Honorable Alfred 
dropped into a chair when he had watched 
the last flutter of her skirts disappear within 
the doorway. 

“ Damnation !” he muttered. “Iam gnaw- 
ing a file.” 


86 


A College Widow . 


CHAPTER VI. 

The next morning the platform of the 
West End station was crowded with the usual 
number of city men waiting for the trains 
that were to take them to town. The sta- 
tion-agent was cross. The morning was warm 
and the day bade fair to be very hot. In con- 
sequence no ladies were going to town, and 
so there were no pretty women about the sta- 
tion to be stared at. The station-agent felt 
hat he was defrauded of one of his perquisites, 
and he was disposed to be morose about it. 

Suddenly, however, his gloomy eyes lighted 
up. A petticoat had appeared at last, and a 
Very pretty petticoat it was, too. Or so 
thought the station-agent, and he believed 
himself to be a connoissieur in such matters. 
From the further end of the platform a 
young girl was advancing. She was clothed 
in some fresh, crisp material of which the 
general effect was cool as to temperature and 
light-blue as to color. A white-chip sailor-hat 


A College Widow . 


87 


rested on her brown head. She carried a 
long-handled parasol in her hand, and her 
feet were shod in russet-colored low-quartered 
shoes. 

The young lady stepped up to the window 
and asked how long before the first train 
from the city was due. The station agent 
stood up, looked at thehlock, and responded : 

“ Ten minutes, miss.” 

“ It is not delayed ?” 

“Oh, no, miss.” 

“Thank you.” 

The young lady moved away, and the 
station agent looked after her ruminatingly. 

“I wonder what kind of a duck he is,” he 
murmured. Then he sighed. 

By-and-by the train from the city signalled 
its approach with the usual screeching whistle. 
Then it lumbered up to the platform. A 
few passengers got off, and among others a 
short, sturdily-built young man dressed in 
dark-blue flannel. A low straw hat shaded 
his sunburnt face. He carried a small al- 
ligator-skin bag in one hand. As he stepped 
from the car he caught sight of the crisp- 
looking young lady, and his eyes lighted up. 


88 


A College Widow . 


The girl ran to him, threw her arms around 
his neck, and kissed him. Then she held 
her head back and looked earnestly into his 
face, after which she kissed him again ten- 
derly. 

The station agent was an interested spec- 
tator of this little scene. As the two young 
people turned and came walking down the 
platform toward him he looked at them crit- 
ically. 

“Why, they’re brother and sister,” he said 
to himself, smiling complacently. “They 
look enough alike to be twins.” 

It was an hour before that complacent smile 
faded from the station-agent’s features in the 
cares of business. 

Meanwhile Tom and Marion walked down 
to the end of the platform in silence. 

“Where can we go to be alone together ?” 
he asked. “I must have a long talk with 
you before I go to the house.” 

“ Let us go to the iron pier,” the girl sug- 
gested. “We can have all the privacy we 
need there.” 

So Tom called a cab and they rattled oif 
to the iron pier, at the extreme end of which 


A College Widow . 89 

they were ensconced together on a bench in 
the course of the next fifteen minutes. 

“Is it really true?” Marion was saying. 
“Are you really married ?” 

“ Yes, I am,” Tom responded gloomily ; 
“married fast and tight — three days ago. 

It seems like three years.” 

Marion gave his arm an affectionate 
squeeze, and begged him to tell the whole 
story. Tom groaned at some thought that 
seemed to be specially bitter. 

“It’s about as bad a business as it could 
well be,” he said. “The fact is, I've married 
a college widow.” 

“ A what ?” 

“A college widow. That's the nickname 
a girl gets in the course of time in a college 
town who has been going round with genera- 
tions of students without succeeding in mar- 
rying any one of them.” 

“ Tom !” 

“The particular college widow who has 
fallen to my lot is, or was, Miss Sarah Sit- 
greaves. She says she is twenty-five, but she 
must be over thirty. The truth is, that when 
I was a little boy running round in knicker- 


9 o 


A College Widow . 


bockers my present wife was actively en- 
gaged in dancing, flirting, going to picnics 
and sleigh-rides with the Rochester collegians 
of those remote days.” 

Tom's effort to be jocular was not an 
eminent success, and it did not banish the 
horror-stricken look from his sister's face. 

“ Tom, what did you do it for ?" 

“I couldn't help it,” groaned that worthy. 

“Not help it ? Oh, Tom!” 

“ Well, you see, this is how it was,” Tom 
began desperately : “ when I entered my 
senior year the present Mrs. Thomas Curzon 
was a belle in the society which Rochester 
seniors honor with their presence. You see, 
she has had a good deal of practice in being 
a belle, and it's not much wonder she's suc- 
ceeded at it. Besides, she's not bad-looking. 
She carries her years well. She's small and 
light, and she dances remarkably well. She's 
very good-natured, and she has rather pretty 
red hair which she wears in curls down her 
back.” 

“Tom!” came from the girl's lips in a 
horrified whisper. 

“Well, last winter, when I got to going 


A College Widow. 


91 




out in society, of course nothing would do 
me but I must have a try at cutting out the 
others with the belle. As you see, Fve suc- 
ceeded too well. I suppose I did say a lot 
of foolish things to her, but I never had the 
least idea it would come to this,” concluded 
Tom, with a groan. 

“But how’ did it happen ? Why did you 
marry her if you didn't want to ?” 

“It was after we got back from the base- 
ball trip,” proceeded Tom. “I was foolish 
enough to go up to say good-bye to Sadie. 
That's what we call her for a pet name, 
though she's better known to most Rochester 
students as ‘the little sorrel-top."' 

Tom tried to laugh, but the frozen horror 
in his sister's eyes checked him. 

“I suppose I said a good many foolish 
things to her,” he continued, pettishly. “ At 
all events, the first thing I knew, her father 
was in the room. He is a sort of politician 
and contractor, and has the reputation of 
being a very dangerous man. I had seen 
very little of him, as he most generally kept 
to himself and left Sadie to herself. Well, 
he locked the door and put the key in his 


92 


A College Widow . 


pocket. Then he turned to me and asked 
me what my intentions were. I looked at 
Sadie. She was white and trembling. I 
stammered out something, I don’t know what. 
Old Sitgreaves then asked me point-blank 
whether I intended to marry his daughter. 
I said I hadn’t thought of it. Then he got 
into a towering passion, and talked a good 
deal about his own respectability and his 
daughter’s honor. Finally he produced * a 
revolver and, a watch, and said he’d give me 
five minutes to make up my mind. If I 
didn’t conclude to marry Sadie he swore he’d 
shoot me like a dog.” 

Marion gave her brother’s arm a terrified 
squeeze at this point. The latter continued : 

“ Sadie screamed and got down on her 
knees and begged me to yield ; said she loved 
me to distraction, and it would drive her crazy 
if I let her father kill me before her eyes. 
Well, between the two of ’em I got rattled, 
I suppose.” 

Tom’s face turned a vivid crimson at this 
point. 

His sister patted his shoulder, murmuring, 
“ You poor, poor Tom !” Then her manner 


A College Widow. 


93 


changed and, with an angry glitter in her 
eyes, she exclaimed : “I wish Fd been there 
with another pistol ! They shouldn't have 
treated you so." 

“I wish you had with all my heart," 
groaned Tom ; “ but you weren't there, and 
I couldn't see any way out of it, and so I 
gave up. The old man produced a Meth- 
odist minister and a marriage license in short 
order, and, quicker than Jack Robinson, there 
were we two tied together." 

The weather, or the anguish which these 
recollections inspired, caused the perspiration 
to stand out on Tom's forehead in great 
beads. He mopped his face vigorously with 
his handkerchief for a few moments, and 
then continued : 

“When the old man had left us alone 
together I got to thinking about mother and 
you, and ttie more I thought the madder I 
grew. I had been trapped into a marriage 
that would be simple ruin if I submitted to 
it. I determined I wouldn't submit. The 
first thing to do was to gain time. I repre- 
sented to Sadie and afterwards to her father 
that I must come to Long Branch and break 


94 


A College Widow . 


the news of my marriage to my parents. I 
let them think I had a father as well as a 
mother. The old man would have a greater 
respect for a male parent than for a lone 
widow. I told them I should he disowned 
by my haughty parents unless I was very 
diplomatic in breaking the news to them. 
The old man grumbled a good deal about 
my coming away without my bride, but he 
finally consented. I am convinced that it is 
only a mercenary scheme on his part, though 
Fm bound to say for his daughter she’s no 
party to that. What she wants is a husband, 
and she has been after one so long that she 
is contented now to take even a youngster 
like me.” 

“Oh, Tom, don’t you suppose she loves 
you ?” put in tender-hearted Marion at this 
point. 

“Bosh! How should a girl who has been 
flirting with decades of college students know 
anything about true love? Anyway I got 
away on a two weeks’ leave. Yesterday I 
spent with a lawyer in New York.” 

“What did he say?” 

“Oh, the marriage won’t hold if I can 


A College Widow . 


95 


prove that I acted under compulsion. He 
thinks, though, that I shall find that very 
difficult. I do, too, and what’s more, I 
should be in much greater danger from the 
old man’s violence than I was before. I don’t 
want to go through life feeling that I’m liable 
to be loaded up with buckshot at any mo- 
ment.” 

“ Oh, don’t talk so flippantly about it,” in- 
terjected Marion, with a shudder. 

“ The lawyer says,” continued Tom, laugh- 
ing, “that the best thing for me to do under 
the circumstances is to compromise with Sit- 
greaves if I can. He agrees with me that it’s 
only a blackmailing scheme on his part, and 
that he can be bought off. So that is what 
has got to happen. He must be bought off.” 

“But how?” 

“That’s the question — how? The first 
thing is to find out how much — or how little, 
he will take. Then you or I must get the 
money out of mother.” 

“Out of mother?” 

Her mother’s story of her approaching ruin 
flashed at once into Marion’s mind. 

“Certainly,” quoth Tom. “Who else?” 


9 6 


A College Widow . 


“Oh, but Tom — ” Marion began. Then 
she stopped and bit her lips. Why tell him 
what she knew? He had enough to bear al- 
ready. She must have an opportunity to 
think it all over. A way must be found to 
help Tom out of his trouble. By the time 
he had learned the truth from his mother she 
would have a plan thought out to comfort 
him with. 

“Mother doesn’t know, does she?” asked 
Tom. 

“No. But—” 

“But what?” 

“Some one else does.” 

“Some one else?” 

Then she told him about the Honorable 
Alfred, and as much as she chose about her 
conversation with him the day before. But 
she said nothing about the gentleman’s hopes 
with regard to herself. 

“ This Mr. Pleasants is the very man to 
help me,” exclaimed Tom. “He is good 
friends with mamma and you?” 

“Yes,” assented Marion; “we are 
friends.” 

“You must introduce me. I’ll talk it all 


A College Widow . 


97 


over with him. If I can get a man of his 
influence on my side I can pull through. He 
can work on old Sitgreaves through his 
brother the Mayor. Why, it’s the very 
thing !” And Tom, with the hopefulness of: 
his years, began to look upon his troubles as 
very nearly surmounted. 

“ Come on, May,” he cried, almost gayly ; 
“ let us go up to the house. I want to see 
the mother ever so much.” 

And all the way up it was the brother who 
was jocular and of good heart, while the sister 
was pensive and downcast. 

That afternoon Mrs. Curzon got her son 
alone with her in her room, and had a long 
confidential talk with him. She began by 
saying that he had finished the educational 
part of his career, and that he must now 
think of the place he was going to take in 
life. Then she told him what she had told 
Marion about her financial situation, and 
wound up by confiding to him her views 
with respect to himself and Jessica, and what 
she had already done to promote those views. 

What the young man’s feelings were by 
the time his mother had finished her little 


9 8 


A College Widow . 


speech may be imagined by those who have 
followed this narrative with attention. A 
very woe-begone face was that which Tom 
turned toward her as she continued to ex- 
patiate upon the advantages that would ac- 
crue from the proposed alliance with the 
house of Druce. Noticing this after a while, 
she asked him if he were not well. He pro- 
tested that he was, but said he felt very tired 
from so much railroad travel the past two 
days, and thought he would like to lie down 
for a short time. 

“ You’ll think of what I’ve said to you,” 
said his mother, as he rose. “ I know you 
like Jessica, and I feel that she likes you. 
She is a darling girl, and it would be the 
delight of my life to see you married to her, 
even if she were not rich — if you could af- 
ford it. Of course, if you cannot love each 
other I shall have to forego my hopes ; for I 
would never ask one of my children to make 
a loveless marriage. But I am sure you can 
love her, and you can make her love you.” 

Tom said he hoped he could, and then 
moved toward the door. 

“ Oh, that reminds me of another thing,” 


A College Widow . 


99 


exclaimed his mother. “ You will meet a 
Mr. Pleasants here. He has asked Marion to 
be his wife. I have given my consent, but 
May is as yet undecided. It will be an ex- 
cellent match for her. Mr. Pleasants is a 
gentleman and a millionaire. I hope when 
you meet him you will try and be friendly 
with him.” 

Tom said he would do his best, and so 
finally drifted out of the room. But he 
didn’t go to his own apartment. His 
thoughts were in a whirl. What ! his mother 
a bankrupt ? Then good-bye to all hopes of 
bribing old Sitgreaves. And if he could not 
get rid of his wife in esse , what was the use 
of thinking of a wife in posse ? There was, 
to be sure, a bit of hope in what his mother 
had told him about Marion. If his sister 
married a millionaire he could get the money 
from her. Yes, there was a gleam of hope in 
that. It made Tom think he would like to 
fortify himself with a trifle of brandy and 
orange bitters. He would go over to the 
hotel and indulge in those luxuries. As he 
went downstairs the sound of voices came to 
his ears from the veranda. Outside he found 


100 


A College Widow . 


the girls talking to a little dark gentleman 
with black curly hair, to whom he was pre- 
sented. It was Mr. Pleasants. Tom did his 
best to appear at ease. But his mind would 
keep reverting to the orange bitters. Pretty 
soon he excused himself, on the plea of an 
errand at the hotel. Before he had reached 
the gate he heard his name called, and, turn- 
ing, perceived Mr. Pleasants following. 

“ Fm going over to the hotel, and, if you 
don’t mind, I will walk with you that far.” 

xlrrived at the hotel, Tom asked his new 
acquaintance to join him in discussing the 
orange bitters. Afterwards Mr. Pleasants 
asked Tom up to his rooms on the plea that 
he had some rather choice Otard that he 
should be happy to have his young friend 
sample. Under the influence of the Otard 
the two rapidly became very good friends in- 
deed. Mr. Pleasants told Tom that his sister 
had spoken to him about her brother’s 
trouble, and he invited the young man to give 
him his confidence, which Tom, after a little 
pressing, did to the fullest extent. The con- 
gressman sympathized with him, but was 
quite reassuring. He said it was an awkward 


A College Widow. 


IOI 


fix to be in, of course, but he was sure that a 
little money would pull him through all 
right. 

“ You have spoken to your mother about 
it?” 

“No” 

“Ah, yes. Miss Curzon warned me that 
her mother was not to be told. But will it 
not be necessary to tell her now ? She will 
provide the funds that will enable you to re- 
lease yourself from your disagreeable mar- 
riage.” 

No, Tom thought it was not necessary to 
tell his mother just yet — at least not until 
he could know how much money Sitgreaves 
would consent to be appeased with. That 
was the point. If he, Tom, only had a friend 
who could negotiate this delicate business 
for him, how grateful and happy he would 
be ! 

“ Have you told your sister all about it ?” 

Yes, Tom had told his sister all about it. 

“ And what does she think ?” 

Tom admitted that his sister had not ex- 
pressed much thought on the subject. But 
she had been very sympathetic, and she was 


102 


A College Widow . 


much worried oyer the whole thing. She 
was, Tom thought, the greatest little trump 
in the world. 

“And I say, Mr. Pleasants — ” Tom’s 
cheeks were burning and his eyes were shin- 
ing with something besides youth and health 
— “mother has told me about you and May, 
and I want to say that I wish you luck. I 
believe you’re a regular trump, too.” 

The Honorable Alfred pressed Tom’s hand 
warmly. The young man had risen to take 
his leave, when the door opened and the sec- 
retary strode in. He stared at the two. 

“Ah, Razzle,” said his chief, “this is my 
friend Mr. Curzon — the gentleman Mr. Sit- 
greaves of Rochester wrote us about yester- 
day. Mr. Curzon — Mr. Razzle, my secretary.” 

The secretary looked at Tom sharply, and 
then said , composedly, but with a rather 
grandiloquent air : 

“ I congratulate you, Mr. Curzon.” 

Tom thought at first he was being made fun 
of. But the secretary seemed to be quite in 
earnest. So Tom said “ Thank you” very 
gruffly, and immediately thereafter took his 
leave, followed to the door by the congress- 


A College Widow . 


103 


man. The latter, when he had shut the door 
behind him, turned, leaned his back against 
it, and delivered himself up to a fit of silent 
laughter. The secretary, who was by this 
time at his desk, looked up at his chief, 
smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and turned 
to his work. 


104 


A College Widow . 


CHAPTER VII. 

The next day Major Yernay and Fred 
came down from the city. They took rooms 
at the same hotel that the Honorable Alfred 
patronized, and of course the three gentlemen 
saw much of each other, as all three were a 
good deal at the Druce cottage. 

Very often the Honorable Alfred was ac- 
companied thither by his secretary, who had 
some social aspirations which his chief was 
willing to gratify to a limited extent. Mr. 
Razzle had been a Thespian when Mr. Pleas- 
ants had first formed his acquaintance. This 
was six years before, when the congressman 
was about entering upon his political career. 
The actor at that time was engaged in that 
precarious line of business known to the pro- 
fession as “ jobbing.” The jobs that he got 
were not particularly lucrative, and Mr. 
Razzle had been compelled to seek employ- 
ment outside of the profession. He was a 
fair stenographer, and he had answered an 


A College Widow. 


105 


advertisement calling for that kind of labor. 
He had by this means been brought into con- 
tact with his present chief, who had engaged 
him at once, and had never seen cause to re- 
gret that act. The secretary possessed a very 
profound knowledge of men, which made 
him exceedingly valuable to his chief. He 
was an indefatigable worker, and seemed 
never to care for relaxation. He occasionally 
demanded to be taken into society, however. 
He was a man of good education and gentle- 
manly habits, despite certain bohemian traits, 
condemned by the more fastidious and crit- 
ical taste. 

It was such a taste that Mrs. Leland pos- 
sessed, and she would have none of the sec- 
retary. Mrs. Curzon only brought herself to 
endure him because it was just now her pur- 
pose to endure whatever the Honorable Al- 
fred might call upon her to bear. But the 
secretary was shy of both of these ladies. 
Mrs. Leland he never saw, and when he had 
to address Mrs. Curzon he did so with the 
greatest reserve of manner. One reason why 
Mrs. Curzon disapproved of him was because 
Jessica had taken a fancy to him. He also 


106 A College Widow . 

seemed to be ingratiating himself with Mr. 
Druce. And as Mrs. Curzon regarded these 
two people as her own especial preserves, she 
soon came to look upon Mr. Razzle as a spe- 
cies of social poacher. 

It was not long before Major Vernay came 
to understand how matters stood between the 
congressman and Mrs. Curzon. It was not 
so easy to discover what were the views of 
Marion Curzon herself with respect to the 
projects of the two elders. But Vernay was 
beginning to confess to himself that this was 
for him precisely the one important problem 
of his existence. He must know what this 
“nut-brown mayde” thought of the Honora- 
ble Alfred and his pretensions. So he set 
himself to find out, and of course he was dis- 
astrously unsuccessful. But in the operation 
he exposed his own secret so plainly that the 
young girl could not fail to see it. He fell 
into the mistake, so common with true lovers, 
of showing his love without telling it. He 
had been in love before, or he believed he 
had. He had never found any difficulty in 
expressing himself eloquently and to good 
purpose in those other cases. But he felt 


A College Widow . 


107 


himself grow painfully silent in the presence 
of this young creature. He was experiencing 
that phase of the universal paradox, which is, 
that no honest lover shall appear to advan- 
tage in the presence of his beloved. When he 
had loved lightly he had spoken easily, but 
now his tongue almost refused its office when 
he approached Marion Curzon. It was the 
old story of the murmuring shallows and the 
dumb depths. 

As his silence and awkwardness became 
more painful Marion’s manner toward him 
grew more reserved. The girlish frankness 
that had so charmed him at Syracuse van- 
ished. As his conversation when with her 
dwindled gradually into the commonplace, 
her responses became almost entirely mono- 
syllabic. And so the two acted and reacted 
upon each other until what had been at first a 
warm and almost intimate friendship degen- 
erated into something that looked very much 
like aversion. 

The truth about Marion was this : she was 
trying to make herself believe that she could 
marry the Honorable Alfred and not die of 
shame afterward. One thing was certain to 


108 A College Widow . 

her — Tom must be saved. She would marry 
Mr. Pleasants to save Tom’s life from ruin, 
if she died the. next minute herself. She was 
quite sure of that. But she was now trying 
to make herself believe that it would not be so 
very terrible after all. And when she had 
nearly convinced herself that she could be- 
come Mrs. Pleasants with equanimity, she 
found herself devising ways and means for 
having this cup pass from her. The con- 
flict was a wearing one. The young girl’s 
temper was fast becoming affected by it. 
She was silent and distrait with all her friends, 
but most of all with this tall, dark man who 
looked every inch a lover, she thought, but 
who acted “ every inch a lunatic/’ as she com- 
plained to herself on more than one occasion. 

Nor was Fred’s courtship running smooth- 
ly. As the days went by it became more and 
more apparent to him that Tom Curzon was 
his rival, and bade fair to be a dangerous one. 
The Reverend Ithuriel saw it too, and it led 
to much disturbance in the saintly mind of 
that very respectable ecclesiastic. Poor old 
Mr. Diuce suffered much because of this. 
The Reverend Ithuriel did not, to be sure. 


A College Widow . 109 

attack the old gentleman openly on the sub- 
ject. But he found abundant opportunity to 
make his parishioner feel that his pastor’s 
High-church soul was revolted at the condi- 
tion of things. Mrs. Curzon stood bravely 
to her colors. By means of daily tete-a-tetes 
which she managed to have not only with Mr. 
Druce, but with the Reverend Ithuriel him- 
self, she managed to keep the peace between 
the two old gentlemen. The clergyman was 
immensely flattered by the handsome wid- 
ow’s attentions, and while he did not allow 
himself to lose sight of his own or his son’s 
interests, he was by no means proof against 
the able cajolery which that skilful person 
brought to bear upon him. 

Jessica, on her part, had quite fathomed 
Mrs. Curzon’s purpose with regard to herself. 
And, truth to tell, she was rather thankful to 
that lady for having formed it. The fact 
was, that the greatest fun in life to Jessica 
Druce was to tease Fred Rathbone. And 
Mrs. Curzon’s scheme offered unlimited op- 
portunity for the enjoyment of this pastime. 
The quick-witted girl saw at once that Tom 
was not in love with her. He would not 


no 


A College Widow . 


suffer from a little harmless flirtation. As 
for Fred, she was quite aware that that young 
gentleman’s interests were safe in her hands. 
These points being settled, in her own mind, 
she permitted Tom to make as much love to 
her as was necessary to keep his mother in a 
pleasant temper. 

At this period Tom acted with great dis- 
cretion. He kept his mother in good-humor 
by his devotion to Jessica. At the same 
time he contrived to screw that good lady up 
to full tension in the matter of urging the 
Honorable Alfred’s suit on Marion. He was 
himself indefatigable in this endeavor. And 
he began to see that his influence over his 
sister was very great, both as exerted directly 
upon her and as operated through the me- 
dium of his mother. 

“May,” he had said to her a day or two 
after his coming, “ here’s how it is. Mother 
can’t give me the money to buy off Sitgreaves. 
She has told me all about that. The only 
way I can get it is to borrow it. How whom 
can I borrow it from. It will take five or 
ten thousand dollars, I suppose. I might 
get it from Jessica’s father if I were going 


A College Widow . 


in 


to be his son-in-law, as mother hopes. But 
of course that can't be. I keep up the farce 
of making love to her to keep mother quiet 
and gain time. And Jessica don't care a rap 
for me anyway, I know. N ow I've got to 
borrow the money and buy off old Sitgreaves, 
or I've got to disappear." 

“ Oh, Tom," said his fond sister, looking 
at him with apprehension clearly expressed 
in her gray eyes. “ What do you mean by 
disappear ?" 

“Why," said Tom, coolly, “I shall have 
to go somewhere where that bloodthirsty old 
father-in-law of mine can't find me. I've 
been thinking about it, and I’ve come to this 
conclusion— I'll go west and turn cow-boy." 

“Oh, Tom, how can you talk so — so cruel- 
ly?" She had seen some cow-boys once at a 
show, and the recollection caused her to shud- 
der with apprehension for her brother. She 
did not care so much for the pistols and other 
weapons that appeared to play so prominent 
a part in cow-boy life, but she was sure if 
Tom had to go about as dirty as that he would 
certainly die of disgust. 

“Well, I don't see what else there is for 


1 1 2 


A College Widow. 


me to do,” the prospective cow-boy declared. 
“ I’m not going back to my wife and father- 
in-law. And I know no way of buying them 
off. To be sure, if you could bring yourself 
to think well of Mr. Pleasants* offer — why 
there’ s a way out. It’s the only one I see.*’ 
Tom laughed a little uneasily. The intent 
way in which his sister gazed into his eyes, 
as if she would read his soul, when he men- 
tioned the congressman’s name, made him 
feel uncomfortable. After this he found 
means to drop hints of a similar import into 
his sister’s ears almost daily. In this he was 
ably seconded by his mother. Marion knew 
she must decide quickly, for Tom’s sake. 
Daily his fears of the appearance of his wife 
and father-in-law upon the scene increased. 
He swore if they appeared he would fly the 
country. Marion had nowhere to turn for 
rescue from the logic of her situation. She 
must sacrifice her mother and Tom, or her- 
self. There was no escape. The continual 
dropping of their prayers and suggestions was 
wearing away the stone ; or rather, as she 
sometimes thought in her misery, it was 
changing her heart into a stone. 


A College Widow . 


1 13 


Tom, in all this, was only acting upon the 
instinct of self-preservation too. It so hap- 
pened that in the present instance he was 
compelled by the necessity of the case to 
subsist upon his sisters life if he was to 
survive himself. And he thought compla- 
cently that, after all, the result would de- 
termine which of the two was the fitter to 
survive. Tom was here touching another 
phase of the eternal paradox. Egotism and 
altruism had come face to face in the forum 
of his conscience, and both had demonstrated 
to him their truth and righteousness. Only, 
Tom thought, under the circumstances egot- 
ism seemed to be so much more convenient. 

About this time something happened which 
served to bring matters to a crisis. One 
morning Major Vernay came up to the Druce 
cottage soon after breakfast to arrange about 
a party to Monmouth in contemplation for 
the afternoon. He had sent up his card to 
Mrs. Curzon, and while waiting for her went 
out and sat upon a side veranda where there 
was shade. A window opened from this ver- 
anda into a small morning-room. As he sat 
leaning back, with his head close to this open 


A College Widow . 


1 14 

window, some one entered the room. He 
supposed it was one of the maids until he 
heard the person fall upon a sofa. Then 
there was a sound like a sob, and then came 
to his ears in an agonized moan the words: 

“Oh, Tom, Tom, why have you forced 
me to this ? Oh, Tom, my brother ! my 
brother 

It was the voice of the woman he loved, 
and it sent a strong shiver up into the roots 
of his hair. It swept the cobwebs from his 
brain and the paralysis from his tongue and 
limbs. In a moment he was in the room. 
She had risen and was standing in the middle 
of the floor. 

“ Marion, what is it ? ” 

She looked at him and swayed slightly 
where she stood. He went straight to her 
and took her in his arms. 

“ My darling, tell me ! Let me comfort 
you" 

Her heart seemed to turn to water in her 
bosom. For a moment there was a yielding 
of her whole figure as it lay in his arms. 
Then her eyes closed, a shudder passed 


A College Widow . 1 1 5 

through her frame, and he could feel her 
stiffen and shrink from him. 

“Don't,” she whispered. 

For answer he stooped and kissed the 
splendor of her hair once, twice, thrice. 

“ Let me go,” she panted, struggling from 
him. “You are brutal.” 

“ Brutal ! ” He released her at once. 

“You have no right to treat me so,” she 
said. “ What have I ever done that should 
lead you to believe you might insult me?” 

“ Insult you ? Is it an insult to love you ? 
You must know that I do. You must know 
that it is the dearest wish of my heart to 
make you my wife.” 

“ Do you think that gives you a right to be 
brutal to me ? ” She asked, coldly. “ Where, 
I wonder, were you taught how women should 
be treated.” 

The sneer was cruel. 

“Then you cannot — ” he was beginning. 
There was a creak upon the stair. 

“It is my mother,” she said, interrupt- 
ing. “I will leave you to her.” Then, as 
she passed through the door, she exclaimed. 


Ii6 A[C allege Widow . 

with a certain desperate vehemence in her 
manner : 

“No, it cannot be. I can never be any- 
thing to you,” and was gone. 

When Yernayleft the cottage after he had 
seen Mrs. Ourzon there was a smile on his 
lips. He had forgotton the bitter words and 
the cruel sneer. He only remembered that 
divine instant when her young form had 
yielded itself to his arms as if to its chosen 
resting-place. He believed he knew part of 
her secret. But the rest ? 

“ What is her brother Tom forcing her to ? 
What? Pleasants, of course. But how? 
Why, how can he force her ? Hum! Fll 
find out before I sleep to-night.” 

And he did. When they returned from 
the races in the evening he persuaded Tom 
to dine with him at the hotel. Then they 
spent a couple of hours at pool. There was 
more or less to drink both at dinner and in 
the billiard-room. Afterward Tom accepted 
his invitation to go up to his room and 
smoke. Here they spent two hours more, 
talking, looking at the moon, and drinking 
shandygaff, for the night was hot. And so 




A College Widow . 117 

it happened that before Fred got to the hotel 
at midnight, poor fuddled Tom had told his 
entertainer the whole story— of course upon 
assurances of the profoundest secrecy. 

When Fred awoke the next morning he 
found a note from his partner saying he had 
gone to the city and would be away for some 
days. 


1 1 8 


A College Widow . 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Whex Tom awoke next -morning he was 
cross with himself for having told his secret, 
and more cross with Major Vernay for having 
wormed it out of him. He felt a vague 
sense of insecurity. Supposing Vernay should 
prove the means of bringing his enemies 
down on him. To be sure, he had promised 
not to tell. But he would probably forget 
in a day or two that he had promised. Some- 
thing unpleasant was certain to happen to 
him on account of his silly talkativeness. 
Tom’s fears were undefined, but they worried 
him all the morning while his headache lasted. 

In the afternoon, when he learned from 
Fred that Major Vernay had left suddenly 
to be gone several days, he began to be 
thoroughly alarmed. Vernay couldn’t have 
gone on any other business than this. He 
would communicate with old Sitgreaves and 
Sadie, and they would be down on him im- 
mediately. Tom began to feel quite bitter 


A College Widow . 119 

and revengeful toward his host of the night 
before. As the afternoon wore on he got 
more nervous. He sat upon the veranda and 
caught himself straining his eyes up and 
down the road for a glimpse of his dreaded 
father-in-law. Then he smiled at himself. 
Pshaw! Vernay couldn’t have brought them 
here so soon, even if he were cad enough 
to violate Tom’s confidence. And then, too, 
why should Vernay take any interest in the 
matter. 

By-and-by Marion joined him. She took a 
seat near him and busied herself with some 
worsted work. Neither brother nor sister 
spoke, a sure sign that they were both think- 
ing of the subject that was nearest their 
hearts. Tom fidgeted in his chair, while he 
smoked three cigarettes. Finally he said : 

“ I was fool enough to tell Major Vernay 
all about my scrape last night.” 

She glanced at him quickly and stopped 
her needles. 

“Why?” 

“Blest if I know why. I didn’t intend to. 
But he was such a pump — I — somehow he 
got it all out of me.” 


120 A College Widow . 

“You did not tell him about Mr. Pleas- 
ants, Tom?” 

Tom turned red. 

“ Fm afraid I did though.” 

He expected an outbreak from his sister, 
but he was mistaken. She picked up her 
needles and went on with her work. A bitter 
little smile curled the corners of her mouth. 
After all it was better so. He would think 
worse of her, but he would think the truth. 
He would not believe now that she was wan- 
tonly cruel. He would only be convinced 
that she was base enough to sell herself for 
money. That was better, much better. 

“ He’s gone off suddenly this morning,” 
said Tom, “and I’ve been wondering whether 
he mayn't have gone to bring those people 
down on me.” 

“JSTo, he has not gone to do that,” said 
Marion, with her eyes on her work. 

There was a pause. Finally Tom threw 
his cigarette away with a violent gesture. 
Then he leaned back in his chair. 

“ Heigho !” he exclaimed, half-irritably, 
half -smiling, “ I can’t stand this much 
longer. I can’t keep that woman away from 


A College Widow . 12 1 

here many days more. Never mind ; there’s 
one thing certain — I’ll not be here when 
she comes. They can lead me to the water, 
but they can’t make me drink. If my life 
must be spoiled I’ll spoil it my own way. 
Out on tl e plains I dare say I sha’n’t be a 
gentleman, but I shall be free.” 

He delivered himself of these sentences de- 
liberately, with a short pause after each. 
Then he fell into silence, and stared moodily 
out on the sea. 

“Tom,” his sister’s voice came softly to 
him after a while. 

“Well ?” 

“ Do you think Mr. Pleasants would be 
able to rescue you from these people if he 
wished ?” 

“ I’m as certain of it as I am of anything 
in life,” he responded. 

“ Then I’ll ask him to, Tom.” 

Tom was silent. He knew what she 
meant, and he felt like keeping silence in the 
presence of that knowledge. By-and-by he 
got up and slouched into the house. As lie 
passed her he bent suddenly and kissed her 
cheek. Then he went upstairs. 


122 


A College Widow . 


The young girl worked on in silence. 
Presently a tear dropped upon the fabric her 
hands were weaving. The thirsty worsted 
drank it greedily, and it was gone. With it 
died Marion Curzon’s girlhood. . 

“Mother,” said Tom, a moment later, 
looking into that lady’s room, “you had 
better tell that duffer Pleasants this evening 
that his time has come.” 

He shut the door roughly and walked 
heavily to his own room. Somehow his room 
seemed larger than he had thought it before. 
Or was it that he had grown smaller ? He 
threw himself wearily on his bed. 

“ What a cowardly brute I am !” he 
groaned. That was all. 

So it happened that the Honorable Alfred 
came to Miss Curzon that evening and re- 
newed the offer of his hand and heart in due 
form. Marion explained her position to him 
as delicately as possible, but frankly and 
fully. Net, her position was that when he 
could convince her that Tom was free, or 
sure to become free, from his odious mar- 
riage she would be his wife. She did not 
attempt to conceal from herself or from bin* 


A College Widow . 123 

the character of the transaction she was pro- 
posing. She let him see that she loathed 
herself for proposing it. It even seemed to 
the Honorable Alfred that she took a certain 
pleasure in scorning herself before him, as 
if she were cheapening the goods he had bar- 
gained for. But he did not hesitate, on his 
side. As a business man he had made bar- 
gains often before, and shrewd ones, too. 
But it occurred to him that this was perhaps 
the thriftiest transaction he had ever ar- 
ranged — if only Sitgreaves did not ask too 
much. 

That night at the hotel Mr. Pleasants said 
to his secretary : 

“ Razzle, you must go to Rochester for me 
to-morrow.” 

“Yes?” said the secretary, with a rising 
inflection on the monosyllable. 

“ Yes ; Pm going to marry Miss Curzon, 
and—” 

“I congratulate you,” interposed Mr. 
Razzle, dryly. 

“Don't mention it,” said Pleasants, laugh- 
ing. “You didn't doubt that I should ar- 
rive, I trust ?” 



124 


A College Widow . 


“Humph !” 

“ But before I marry her I must get her 
brother out of his scrape. I may say that 
is a condition precedent. So you go to 
Rochester. Take letters of introduction to 
my brother and this man Sitgreaves. Have 
Percival take you to him. Present yourself 
as a mutual friend of mine and the Curzons. 
Then find out in your own way how much 
or how little the old fellow will take to let 
this marriage be annulled. You know the 
case and the law. You are a shrewd fellow, 
and ought to drive a good bargain, eh ?” He 
laughed, and drew out his check-book. 
“ How much shall you want for the trip V 9 

Mr. Razzle, who had his hat on his head 
and a cigar in his mouth, placed his legs upon 
the desk in front of him, and slid down in 
his leather chair until his hat was tilted well 
forward, so that it lay almost upon his nose 
and cigar. 

“Before you draw that check,” he said, 
“ Fve a story you'd better hear.” 

“ Hurry up, then; I'm sleepy.” 

“Twenty years ago / was a student at 
Rochester College. 1 met a maiden who had 


A College Widow . 


125 


red hair, and whose name was Sarah. Her 
father was twenty years younger than he is 
now, but he was even then called old Sit- 
greaves. The young lady, whom we used to 
call Sadie, and sometimes ‘ Little Sorrel-top/ 
became my accusative case. I was fond, I 
remember, but I intended to be fickle. Her 
father thought differently. One morning he 
shut himself up with me in the parlor and 
gave me my choice between my brains on the 
carpet and a parson. I chose the parson 
with alacrity. I was straightway married to 
‘Little Sorrel-top/ The next day I skipped 
the country and — here I am. See ?” 

Pleasants gave a long whistle, and stared 
at his companion. 

“Do you mean to tell me that story is 
true ?” he demanded, at last. 

“As true as that you are making an ass of 
yourself now, just as I did then. What do 
you want to get married for, anyway ?” 

“That’s my business, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, and mine too,” retorted Razzle, sit- 
ting up in his chair. “What the devil’s 
going to become of me when you get mar- 
ried ?” 


126 


A College Widow . 


“Why, you’ll continue to live with me as 
my secretary, as* you have for the past six 
years. ” 

“Yes, I will !” said the secretary, con- 
temptuously. “Why, within fifteen min- 
utes after that old lady with the teeth be- 
comes your mother-in-law, I shall be shown 
to the door and asked to admire the land- 
scape.” 

“Oh, I think not as soon as that,” said 
Pleasants, laughing. “But that isn’t the 
point. If what you say is true, you cairt go 
to Rochester for me.” 

“Hardly.” 

“Why, but Tom’s not the girl’s husband 
after all, then. In that case I sha’n’t have 
to buy off old Sitgreaves. Hum — yes, I 
shall, though.” 

The last sentence the congressman spoke in 
a lower tone of voice. The secretary laughed 
shortly. Pleasants sat still and thought. If 
this fact (and he did not doubt that it was a 
fact) should come to Marion’s ears, he might 
bid good-bye to her. He understood per- 
fectly that she was only marrying him to 
save her brother, not to please her mother. 


A College Widozv . 


127 


But he could not lose her. Mrs. Leland was 
a true prophet. Having once chosen her, 
he could not hear to give her up. 

“Razzle,” he said, at last, “you must keep 
this to yourself.” 

“ For how much must I ?” 

They looked at each other for a moment, 
and then both smiled. 

“I shall add another thousand to youj 
salary when I am married,” said Pleasants. 

“ Hum !” 

“ Besides, you would be quite sure of hold- 
ing your place. I shouldn't want my wife 
to know I had practised a fraud upon her.” 

“For a while, at all events,” said the sec- 
retary. 

“On the other hand, if you peach, Pll 
discharge you and I'll give you up to old 
Sitgreaves.” 

“ I suppose if I peach I shall have to give 
myself up, sha'n't I ?” 

“ Yes, unless you run away again.” 

“A wife and a well-to-do father-in-law 
wouldn't be so disagreeable now as they 
seemed then,” mused Mr. Razzle. “I'm an 
older and a wiser man than I was.” 


128 


A College Widow. 


“ Perhaps. At all events you must decide. 
Come, what is it to be — war or friendship ?” 

“ Oh, friendship, by all means,” said Raz- 
zle. “ The old flag and an appropriation 
decidedly.” 

“Very good. Then the programme I 
sketched to you will be carried out, only I 
will take your place in it.” 

Accordingly the next day the Honorable 
Alfred went to Rochester. As lie had believed 
all along, he did not have much difficulty 
in coming to terms with Sitgreaves. The 
shrewd old gentleman however stuck for a 
pretty round figure. He insisted that the 
damage to his own respectability and his 
daughter’s honor could not be repaired for 
a less sum than $25,000. For this he agreed 
to keep both himself and his Sadie quiet, 
and to let Tom have a divorce by default. 
After some haggling this was the sum agreed 
upon. Five thousand dollars were paid down, 
ten thousand were to be due upon the de- 
fault, and the final payment was to be made 
when the decree was handed down. 

The substance of this agreement was duly 
despatched to Marion and Tom, as well as 


A College Widow . 


129 


to the somewhat apprehensive Razzle. Tom 
was directed to meet the Honorable Alfred 
in New York. There they called on Tom's 
lawyer. The case was explained, the divorce 
papers were drawn up, and Tom was made 
happy by the lawyer's declaration that, if the 
other parties held to the agreement, he would 
probably be a free man within a month or 
two at farthest. With this pleasant assurance 
the prospective bachelor and the prospective 
benedick repaired together to Long Branch 
in the highest possible good-humor with 
themselves. 

When they arrived at the hotel the first 
person they met was Major Vernay, who had 
just returned also. Tom tad, under the 
circumstances that now existed, entirely 
forgotten his former apprehensions about 
Vernay. That gentleman's existence was in- 
deed a matter of but small moment to him 
now. He even forgot to inquire where Ver- 
nay had kept himself during the past week. 
And it was perhaps quite as well for his peace 
of mind that he neglected to interest himself 
on this point. 

When Marion had heard how matters stood 
from Tom, she told the Honorable Alfred 


130 A College Widozv. 

she was quite ready to keep her part of the 
agreement. She said the ceremony could 
take place whenever he chose, only she stip- 
ulated that it should he private. 

The Honorable Alfred had, as we know, 
his own reasons for hastening the marriage 
as much as possible. He took his fiancee at 
her word and pleaded for the earliest possible 
day. It was finally decided that the wedding 
should take place from the Druee cottage 
that day week. 

This announcement was duly made to the 
friends of the contracting parties, who there- 
upon hastened to bestow their congratula- 
tions upon the happy pair. Apparently not 
the least sincere and cordial among these 
congratulations were those received from a 
certain tall, gaunt gentleman with dark, 
Spanish features and leonine eyes. As Mar- 
ion listened to the pleasant little speech which 
this gentleman made to herself and the Hon- 
orable Alfred the first time he met them 
after the announcement, and as she looked 
upon the kindly calmness of his face, her 
heart turned sick within her, and for a 
moment the sky seemed to shrivel together 
like a scroll above her. 


A College Widow . 


131 


CHAPTER IX. 

Ok the evening after the announcement 
of Marion Curzon's engagement to the Hon- 
orable Alfred Pleasants the famous Leland 
diamond robbery took place. I give this 
transaction the name which it afterwards 
acquired in criminal annals. It was one of 
the most mysterious cases that had puzzled 
the brains of the Mulberry Street magnates 
in years. I quote from the columns of one 
of the daily papers the next morning but one 
after it occurred. 

“ Night before last Mrs. Stuy vesant Leland, 
of No. — Madison Avenue, met with a most 
serious loss under circumstances of a very 
peculiar character. Mrs. Leland is, according 
to her usual custom, spending the summer at 
her cottage at Long Branch, of which gay 
watering-place she is one of the central social 
figures. On the evening in question Mrs. 
Leland was. to attend a fete given by the 
Delancey Marcous at Elberon. In making 


132 


A College Widozv . 


preparations for the toilette the maid had 
laid out upon the dressing-table Mrs. Leland’s 
very valuable parure of diamonds. This was 
about nine o’clock. She then went to the 
kitchen on an errand, very carelessly leaving 
the diamonds unguarded for the space of 
ten or fifteen minutes. When she returned 
the diamonds were gone. For her negli- 
gence she is very justly censured by her mis- 
tress. She will be held under surveillance 
by the police, though Mrs. Leland professes 
to have every confidence in her honesty. 

“ The singular feature of the case is that, 
about eight o’clock on the same evening a 
lady, richly dressed, called at the Leland cot- 
tage and asked the servant to take her card 
to her mistress. When Mrs. Leland entered 
her parlor some moments afterward her 
strange visitor was not there, nor could any 
trace of her be found. The lady was still 
wondering over this mysterious occurrence 
when she received the news of the calamity 
that had befallen her. 

“ It is of course evident that the mysterious 
caller was the thief, or at least an accom- 
plice in the robbery. Her card bore the 


A College Widow . 


133 


name * Mrs. Charles Archer/ As Mrs. Leland 
knows no such person, it is probable that the 
name was a false one, assumed for the pur- 
pose. The police suppose that the thief 
managed to secrete herself in Mrs. Leland’s 
room without being seen, and, after having 
secured the diamonds, to have left the house 
undetected. It seems almost impossible that 
this feat could have been accomplished in a 
house so crowded with servants as the Leland 
dwelling. However, this is the only hypoth- 
esis that has been formed so far. If it is 
founded on fact, it shows the thief to have 
been a woman of great nerve, and one who 
is probably an expert in the business. 

“From the meagre description given by 
the servant who admitted her, the police are 
inclined to bejieve that the woman was a 
celebrated crook and shop-lifter, well-known 
on both sides of the water, who carries many 
aliases, but is generally spoken of by the 
police of London and New York as ‘ French 
Joanna/ 

“This woman is a very bold and clever 
operator. She is known to have been in New 


134 A College Widow . 

York recently. Her description is, etc., 
etc.” 

The Leland robbery created much excite- 
ment in Long Branch, and especially in our 
circle of acquaintances. Mrs. Curzon spent 
the next day with “her dear Fanny,” and was 
profuse in counsels and condolences. Mr. 
Druce and the Beverend Ithuriel, together 
with many other friends, proffered assistance 
and advice. Stuyvesant Leland was sum- 
moned by wire from New York, and came 
down accompanied by several detectives. A 
reward of one thousand dollars was offered, 
and many handbills proclaiming this were 
distributed through the town. 

All those things and many more connected 
with the robbery were discussed by our friends 
at the breakfast-table next morning. Then 
Mrs. Curzon went off to give another day of 
aid and comfort to “her poor Fanny.” Mr. 
Druce and the Rev. Ithuriel went out for a 
morning constitutional, promising to look in 
at Mrs. Leland’s when they came back. The 
Honorable Alfred called and took Marion out 
for a walk. But as she would not go unless 


A College Widow . 


135 


Jessica accompanied her, Tom was left all 
alone in the house. 

The young man devoted himself for a time 
to cigarettes in the morning-room, which was 
the coolest place in the house at that hour of 
the day. Tiring of this, he was beginning 
to yawn and wish that “something would 
happen,” when in walked Fred. The latter 
had asked for Jessica, and been told that she 
was out. Jessica had been rather cool to him 
for some days past, and he was proportion- 
ately miserable. To find her gone now. when 
he had come determined to “have it out 
with her for good and all,” as he vaguely 
expressed his purpose in calling, irritated 
him. On learning that Tom was in the house 
he determined to “have it out” with that 
young gentleman instead. 

Tom on seeing him brightened up at once, 
and jumping from his chair, exclaimed : 

“Isay, Eathbone, let’s knock the balls 
about a bit.” 

Both young men wore their tennis caps, 
blazers, and shoes. 

“No, I won’t,” said Fred, surlily. 

“Hello, what’s the matter?” 


136 A College Widow . 

“ That’s my business,” retorted Fred, 
scowling. 

“Hairpull this morning, Rathbone?” 
Tom asked. 

“See here, Curzon, you must stow that. 
You are impertinent, and I won’t have it. 
Do you hear? I won’t have it.” 

“What are you going to do about it?” 
Tom asked, with a grin. 

This was too much for his antagonist. 
There was a very black look in Fred’s eyes 
as he walked across the room, and there is 
no telling what might have happened had not 
the belligerents been interrupted at this mo- 
ment. 

Jessica had made her escape from the en- 
gaged couple at the earliest opportunity, and 
had hastened back to the house, where she 
had reason to believe she would find Fred. 
Her conscience was beginning to prick her 
because of her treatment of her lover. She 
had teased him unmercifully of late, and she 
had determined to “turn over a new leaf,” 
as she expressed it to herself on her way up 
to the house. 

As she stepped upon the veranda she 


A College Widow . 


137 


heard angry voices and recognized them. 
She walked hastily to the door of the morn- 
ing-room and appeared there just in time. 

“What's the matter?" she exclaimed 
sharply, as she took in the situation. 

Grim-visaged war tried to smooth his 
wrinkled front without being caught in the 
act, but was only partially successful. The 
young men did what young men generally do 
under such circumstances — they looked par- 
ticularly foolish. They both declared that 
nothing was the matter, and Jessica diplo- 
matically pretended to believe them. She 
entered the room and began to talk to both 
vivaciously. In a few moments the young 
men had recovered their equanimity, where- 
upon she asked Fred to take a walk with her 
and begged Tom to excuse them. 

But that young man had been thinking. 
He was feeling very pleasant over his own 
bright prospects. Why should he continue 
to be the means of darkening those of Fred 
Bathbone? He quite understood that the 
latter was jealous of him, and he knew that 
his jealousy was without foundation. Hot 
being in love with Jessica himself, he saw, 


138 


A College Widow . 


or thought he saw, what her feelings were 
both toward himself and Fred. He had en- 
joyed the flirtation. He had continued it to 
please his mother, while he was in deadly 
dread that she would discover his secret. 
But now that, thanks to Marion, he was on 
the point of being delivered from the neces- 
sity of keeping the secret, the whole raison 
d’etre of the flirtation had ceased. 

Tom was young and not so wise as he will 
be. These considerations seemed to him suf- 
ficient for declaring himself in the following 
remarkable manner: 

“ I say,” he exclaimed, as they were going 
out, “ don’t go. You want to be alone, I 
know. Well, stay here and I’ll go out. But 
first I want to say a word. You know, Miss 
Jessica, that my mother has had a scheme to 
marry us.” Tom blushed and grinned as he 
blurted this out. “I know the scheme 
couldn’t be made to work. You wouldn’t 
have me.” 

Here he looked at Fred and grinned again. 
The latter turned red and looked at Jessica. 
She smiled and lowered her eyes. 

“ You two may think I haven’t been act- 


A College Widow. 


159 


ing right the last few weeks. Well, perhaps 
not. But I've been obeying my mother, and 
I had to do that. You see,” continued Tom, 
lowering his voice, “ I've been carrying around 
a secret ever since I've been here that has 
almost broken my back. Most everybody 
knows the secret by this time, though, and 
I'm going to tell you if you'll promise not to 
tell.” 

They promised, and Tom told them much 
of what the reader already knows, amid ex- 
pressions of wonder and condolence from his 
auditors. 

“ But now, you see,” he said, in conclusion, 
“ I haven't anything more to fear, and I 
thought I'd just confess the whole thing to 
you, because I ain't such a bad fellow after 
all, and I don't want you to think badly of 
me. You won't, will you ?” 

They said they wouldn't. 

“And you won't tell mother?” 

They again said they wouldn't. 

“All right, then. And now, thanking 
you, ladies and gentlemen, for your kind at- 
tention, permit me to wish you a fond adieu.” 

With which words the young fellow stepped 


140 


A College Widow . 


out of the window and went round to the 
front piazza, where he devoted himself to 
cigarettes and chuckles for many minutes. 
When he had gone Fred turned to Jessica 
and said simply : 

“Won’t you let it all end right here, Jes- 
sica ?” 

“All what?” demanded that young lady. 

“All our misunderstanding. You know 
how I love you and how you can make me 
suffer. . Can’t you rest content in the knowl- 
edge of your power? Be good, won’t you?” 

“ What shall I do?” Jessica asked, de- 
murely. 

“ Marry me.” 

“I will—” 

“Jessica !” 

“On one condition.” 

“ Name it !” 

“That you will run away with me.” 

“Darling !” 

He had her in his arms in a moment. 
Then there was one of those little scenes 
over which proper-minded novelists usually 
draw a veil. Presently Jessica said, in a 
slightly smothere:! voice : 


A College Widow . 14 1 

“ You see, I want to punish Mrs. Curzon 
for her plots. And then it won’t hurt papa 
to have a little scare either. It was so absurd 
of him to let Mrs. Curzon make game of him 
and us too.” 

“ And when shall it be?” 

“ The sooner the better.” 

“ Darling ! To-day ?” 

“Yes, to-day,” with a lovely blush. 

Another of those eloquent pauses ensued. 
Then the young people sat down and, in a 
conversation made up of silvern speech and 
golden silences, arranged their plan of ac- 
tion. When they had finished, it was deter- 
mined that they should go to New York on 
the afternoon boat, be married there, and take 
the night train for Syracuse. They would 
then open the Druce mansion and write to 
their respective parents. Tom was to accom- 
pany them to the city to be a witness to the 
marriage, and return on an evening train. 
When this convention had been fully agreed 
upon and duly sealed with another eloquent 
pause, Jessica went upstairs to make some 
preparations. Fred called Tom in from the 
veranda. 


142 


A College Widow . 


“Give me your hand, Curzon,” he said. 
“You’re a brick. I don’t know when I 
should have gotten her but for you.” 

Tom grinned and shook hands. Then 
Fred told him what was expected of him. 
He willingly consented to assist them, and 
the two late belligerents sat down to smoke 
the cigarette of peace together. 

Presently some one was shown into the 
next room, and a servant came to the door 
and announced 

“A lady to see you, Mr. Curzon.” 

Tom turned a little pale, got up, and went 
to the door. As he reached it Fred heard 
from the next room a woman’s voice cry, 

“ Tom !” 

“ My God !” exclaimed that young man. 
Then he hastily slammed the door to and put 
his back against it. 

“ It’s my wife !” he whispered, in response 
to Fred’s query. “ What in the devil’s name 
has brought her here ?” he groaned. 

There was the sound of knocking on the 
door, and a woman’s voice said : 

“You can’t escape me, Tom, and you 


A College Widow . 


143 


needn't try. I'm going to have an explana- 
tion with you if I stay here a month." 

“ I must see her/' said Tom, in an ago- 
nized whisper. “ For God's sake, Rathbone, 
go around in front and keep people away 
from us if you can. I must get her down to 
the hotel as soon as possible. My mother 
must not see her. If you can think of any 
way to aid me, do, for Heaven's sake." 

Fred nodded and slipped out through the 
open window, while Tom opened the door 
and faced the irate Sadie. 

“The little Sorrel-top" was well named. 
She had a great profusion of fiery red hair, 
of which she seemed to be proud, for she 
displayed it in a prodigious number of ring- 
lets. She had a round, tight little figure, 
was apparently on the shady side of thirty- 
five, and sported freckles. Her face, partly 
from emotion and partly from the weather, 
had taken on a deep crimson hue that matched 
her tresses. 

“Now, sir," she exclaimed, as soon as Tom 
appeared, “ will you explain yourself ?" 

“Explain myself?" 


144 


A College Widow . 


“ Why do you hide from me ? What is all 
this about a divorce?” 

“ Who told you about the divorce ?” 

“ My father, of course.” 

“Well, he knows as much about it as I.” 

“Do you mean to tell me you are going 
to apply for a divorce when we have only been 
married three weeks ?” cried the little woman, 
showing signs of strong exasperation. 

“ I've already applied,” said Tom, sullenly. 

“Very well, then,” said the legal partner 
of his joys and sorrows, seating herself with 
portentous dignity upon the sofa, “ very well, 
then, I shall stay here and demand protection 
from your parents. If your father and mother 
have hearts in their bosoms they wont see 
me so wronged.” 

“ Oh, Lord !” said Tom to himself, “ she 
has kicked the traces and her father can't 
hold her. Was there ever such luck?” 

Then he tried to calm his excited better 
half. He begged her to go back to the hotel 
and give him a little more time in which to 
break the marriage to his parents. To this 
she replied that she would break the news to 
them herself without any loss of time, he 


145 


A College Widow . 

needn’t be afraid. She was deaf to all his 
entreaties, and declared she would wait there 
until his parents returned. Tom was getting 
desperate when an interruption occurred, to 
explain which it will be necessary to follow 
Fred out on the veranda. 

When he got round in front he was aware 
of a large man coming up the path from the 
gate, who seemed to have alighted from a 
covered hack which stood near it. 

“Good morning,” said the man, as he as- 
cended the steps. He had a sideways and 
downward look that Fred didn’t like. He 
returned his salutation therefore gruffly. 

“ Do you live here ?” asked the man. 

“ What’s that to you ?” 

“Ah, to be sure,” said the man, looking 
sharply at Fred. “ Civil question, I thought. 
However, that’s neither here nor there. A 
woman came in here just now?” 

“ Yes,” said Fred, becoming interested and 
somewhat impressed by the man’s manner 
and tone. 

“Do you know her?” was the next ques- 
tion. 

“N — no,” said Fred. 


146 


A College Widow . 


“H’m !” said the man, “I do. I want to 
see her. I’ve got business with her.” 

Fred stared. The man smiled, took a dirty 
bit of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, 
and handed it to Fred. It was the descrip- 
tion of the diamond robber, and the offer of 
the reward. Fred looked up interrogatively. 
The man nodded his head slowly, and jerked 
his thumb over his shoulder toward the 
house. 

“Now, p’raps you’ll answer my question. 
Do you live here?” 

“No ; but my father is staying with the 
people of the house.” 

“Friends of yours?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, then, I’m Sergeant Dil worthy, of 
headquarters, and I must have that woman. 
I don’t want to make a disturbance, but I’ll 
have no nonsense. If you know any way to 
get her out 0’ the house quiet, it’s your turn 
to talk.” 

Before the officer had ceased speaking Fred 
had digested an idea that had popped into 
his brain. 

“You are 


right, officer,” he said. “It 


A College Widozv . 


147 


would be a great pity to make a disturbance 
here. There’s a sick lady inside. I can show 
you a better way. If you’ll go back to your 
carriage and wait, I’ll bring her out to you. 
Got anybody with you ?” 

Sergeant Dilworthy nodded. 

“Here’s my card,” continued Fred. “I 
hold myself responsible. Within ten minutes 
she’ll come out and walk down towards the 
hotels and station. You can follow her, and 
when you get to a convenient place seize her. 
Oh, by the way, there’ll be a young man 
with her. Leave him alone. He doesn’t 
know who she is. He’s a young fellow, and 
she’s made him believe she’s some one else — 
somebody totally different, you understand.” 

Fred looked knowingly at the officer, who 
smiled and winked. 

“All right,” said he, "I’ll take your word 
for it, young fellow. But, remember, if any- 
thing goes wrong about this, you can be held 
as an accessory after the fact.” 

Fred nodded and said there was no danger. 
So the officer went back to his carriage, and 
Fred, entering the hall, knocked on the par- 
lor door. Tom came out looking wretched. 


1 48 A College Widow . 

“What’s the matter? Can’t you get rid 
of her?” - 

Tom in a few words put him in possession 
of the condition of affairs. 

“ All right/’ said Fred, cheerily. “I’ll fix 
her for you. Go in and tell her you give up. 
Say you will present her as your wife to your 
•parents and take the consequences. Then 
as an earnest of good faith call me in, in- 
troduce me as a son of the house and her 
as your wife, and leave the rest to me.” 

Tom stared. 

“ Don’t hesitate. Trust me. We’ve not 
a moment to lose. And mind — back me up 
in whatever I say.” 

Tom did as he was instructed. He was 
pretty desperate by this time, and ready to 
grasp at any straw. He went back to his 
wife and told her he had concluded to stop 
all further attempts to get a separation. He 
should present her to his parents and take 
the consequences. 

“Mind, though,” said he, “if they’re dis- 
agreeable you can’t complain — not of me, at 
all events.” 

By this time Sadie was considerably mol- 


A College Widow . 


149 


lifted and disposed to take a hopeful view of 
things. Fred was now called in. 

“My dear,” said Tom, “let me introduce 
Mr. Druce, our host's son. Druce, this is my 
wife, of whom you have heard me speak.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Curzon, I am charmed to 
see you,” said Fred, with delightful effront- 
ery. “I have heard much of you from Tom, 
and have been looking forward to meeting 
you. We did not expect you so soon, though. 
Why didn't you write?” 

While the pleased Sadie was floundering 
over this question, Fred continued in the 
same affable strain: 

“And where are your trunks? At the 
United States? Dear me, dear me, we must 
have them up at once. I'll go and see that 
your room is made ready, and you and Tom 
can drive down to the hotel and get the 
things.” 

Out he went, but in a moment was back 
again, looking annoyed. 

“Dear me,” he said, “both of the car- 
riages are in use. Never mind, it's only a 
step. Tom, take your wife down to the 
hotel, settle her bill, and have her things sent 


A College Widow . 


150 

up at once. Bless my soul ! Fm glad to have 
Tom Curzon’s wife in the house.” 

With cordial expressions like these he hur- 
ried the dazzled Sadie and the puzzled Tom 
out of the house. When they had gone a few 
steps down the path he called Tom back 
long enough to whisper : 

“IT o matter what happens to her on the 
way down, don’t you interfere. When you 
lose her come back and report to me.” 

Then he waved his hand and smiled 
sweetly to Sadie, and with a benevolent look 
on his face watched the couple go down the 
road, followed by the closed hack. 

In about ten minutes Tom came back look- 
ing dazed. But Fred explained matters to 
him, whereat he laughed consumedly. 

“ Pretty rough on her, though,” he said, 
after a while. 

“ Oh, bother that !” said Fred. “ All’s 
fair in war.” 

They went down to the hotel for a little 
sherry and bitters before lunch. There they 
met Major Vernay, and Tom had to tell him 
the whole story. 


A College Widow . 15 1 

“ The devil !” was Vernay’s only comment. 
He was gnawing his mustache viciously, and 
looked as if he would like to bite some one. 

“ Eh ?” said Tom. 

“ Oh, nothing, only it seems to me that 
w T as a pretty rough joke to play on the 
woman, who, after all, is your wife.” 

“ Oh, bother that !” quoted Tom. “ All’s 
fair in war.” 

“ And in love,” muttered the other. “ Such 
a pretty plan it was, too,” he continued, as he 
turned away; “and now these boys have 
made c pi ’ of it. Never mind ! the game’s 
not out yet. Courage, courage !” 

That same morning a very scared-looking 
woman with a profusion of ruddy ringlets 
went to New York on the Long Branch boat. 
She was accompanied by two burly, official- 
looking men, and seemed to attract much at- 
tention from the bystanders. It was Sadie. 
She had been taken to Mrs. Leland’s cottage 
and fully identified by that lady’s servant as 
the mysterious Mrs. Charles Archer. There 
could be no doubt of it. The finest police 
in the world with unerring instinct had 


152 A College Widow . 

swooped upon their prey. ‘ French J oanna 9 
was found ! 

That afternoon Fred and Jessica were mar- 
ried in New York. The next morning they 
breakfasted together at the Druce mansion 
in Syracuse. 


A College Widow . 


153 


CHAPTER X. 

Two days had elapsed since the elopement, 
and the Reverend Ithuriel and Mr. Druce 
had heard nothing from their truant children 
beyond the mere announcement of the mar- 
riage by telegram from New York. Both of 
the old gentlemen were very much concerned 
about the matter. Alarm for the safety of 
their children was mingled with the vexa- 
tion which parents have a right to feel under 
such circumstances. 

Mi\ Druce had received the news of the 
elopement with comparative equanimity. He 
had always meant that Jessica should please 
herself, and he had believed that she would 
ultimately please herself by marrying Ered. 
It was because of this belief indeed that he 
had consented to put his money into Fred’s 
banking and brokerage venture when the 
Reverend Ithuriel had urged the scheme 
upon him a couple of years before. He was 
naturally chagrined that his daughter had 


*54 


A College Widow . 


eloped, and especially so because lie had 
always looked forward to a grand wedding for 
her. This idea had dwelt much in his mind 
when he was building his house. It was an 
annoyance to the old gentleman to have even 
this little Spanish castle go up in smoke. He 
also stood in much fear of Mrs. Curzon. 
That lady had been very stiff and severe with 
him since the elopement, but as yet had not 
condescended to complain to him of his 
daughter’s conduct. He was very much 
afraid he should get angry if she did, and so 
lose for J essica the benefits of the widow’s 
social prestige, which had been so useful to 
them during the summer. On the other hand 
he was glad to see the Keverend Ithuriel 
pleased. To him the clergyman’s evident 
satisfaction was something of a make- weight 
against the widow’s manifest chagrin. 

The Reverend Ithuriel’s feelings were 
mixed. At bottom he was very much pleased. 
He was immensely gratified that Fred should 
have secured the heiress at last,, when she 
seemed in such jeopardy, too. And, to say 
truth, his father’s heart was touched with 
gratitude to know that his son’s love had 


A College Widow . 


i5S 


been crowned with fruition. He was very 
fond of Fred, and he knew that he was des- 
perately in love with Jessica Bruce. On the 
other hand, his high church notions had re- 
ceived a severe shock. It was deplorable that 
his son should so far forget his father's teach- 
ings, and those of the communion in which 
he had been brought up, as to take part in 
an elopement. A runaway marriage was a 
direct assault upon authority, and authority 
was the breath and blood of the Church. 
What a scandal there would be among his 
parishioners when they learned that their 
pastor's son had been guilty of a clandestine 
marriage ! The poor old gentleman groaned 
in spirit when he thought of the gossip there 
w r ould be, and how the members of his vestry, 
when they first met him for purposes of busi- 
ness at the end of his vacation, would, by 
their side-glances and general demeanor, en- 
deavor to impress upon him that they were 
not thinking of Fred's elopement, and of how 
he would have to convince them, by a corre- 
sponding exhibition of demeanor, that of 
course he knew they were not doing anything 
of the kind. 


156 A College Widow . 

Mrs. Curzon was disappointed and dis- 
gusted. She was, however, something of a 
philosopher, and she reflected that she could 
not expect to have all the luck. Her 
daughter was to marry a millionaire in a few 
days, and that was enough good fortune for 
the present. It would give her a breathing 
space. She would have time to look round a 
bit for Tom, and there were other good fish 
in the sea, she knew. At the same time she 
was very much put out with Tom, and she 
permitted that luckless youth to see plainly 
that she was. She said nothing to him, but 
her looks spoke volumes of reproach. 

Tom, for his part, kept out of her way. 
The young gentleman was indeed in a very 
unhappy frame of mind. The advent of 
“ the little Sorrel-top” had brought all his 
apprehensions back. The escape from her, 
which Fred's cleverness had procured for 
him, was, he knew, only temporary. It was 
a matter of but a day or two before the 
police would discover their mistake, and then 
Sadie would come back, more formidable 
than evef. Before going up to New York 
to perform his part in the elopement he had 


A College Widow . 


157 


hunted up the Honorable Alfred and told 
him of the new danger that threatened. 
That gentleman had immediately tele- 
graphed to old Sitgreaves to come to Hew 
York, secure his daughter, and perform his 
part of the agreement. The important ques- 
tion for both Tom and the congressman now 
was, which would happen first, the arrival of 
Sitgreaves or the release of Sadie. Tom 
kept his eye on the papers, but the second 
day had come and they gave no news of warn- 
ing. Meanwhile he kept a strict watch on 
the trains. 

The Honorable Alfred was, if anything, 
more perturbed than Tom. He had told 
the latter that if the worst came to the worst, 
he would supply him with sufficient funds so 
that he might keep out of the way, until 
some arrangement could be entered into, 
with the aid of Sitgreaves, whereby Sadie 
might be forced to consent to the divorce. 
This promise permitted Tom to breathe more 
freely than he otherwise would. 

But the Honorable Alfred’s fears were, as 
we know, better founded than Tom’s. If 
Sadie persisted in fighting, it might postpone 


15B 


A College Widozv . 


his marriage. It certainly would if knowl- 
edge of her and her presence in Long Branch 
came to Marion's ears. Furthermore, if she 
contested the divorce case, although she 
would probably be beaten in the end, the 
scandal created would bring to light her 
former marriage, and so might lead to the 
discovery of Bazzle. To guard against any 
present danger of this latter catastrophe he 
persuaded the secretary to go to New York 
and live at one of the more obscure uptown 
hotels under an assumed name. But, not- 
withstanding all his precautions, he was 
more interested than Tom in the question 
of who should arrive first, Sitgreaves or 
Sadie. It was a case of Blucher or Grouchy 
over again. 

It was about three o’clock in the afternoon. 
The Druce cottage was silent and almost de- 
serted. Mrs. Curzon was, as usual, with 
her friend, Mrs. Leland. The robbery was 
still the absorbing topic of public interest, 
especially now that the criminal was known 
to have been taken, and Mrs. Curzon was still 
assiduous in her attentions to “poor Fan- 
ny.” The Honorable Alfred and Marion 


A College Widow . 


159 


had gone out for their afternoon stroll. 
This daily walk was the perquisite which the 
congressman demanded for himself in his ca- 
pacity of futur, Marion accorded it, but 
now that Jessica was gone she took Tom 
along for a chaperon. The Honorable Al- 
fred’s wooing was continued under difficul- 
ties. His fiancee would never permit herself 
to be alone with him for more than a minute 
or two. Her aversion to him, though she tried 
to conceal it, was but too manifest. He felt 
it keenly every time he came into her pres- 
ence. He ground his teeth with rage some- 
times, but he continued to hold to his pur- 
pose as doggedly as ever. He would marry 
her and he would own her. It would be his 
turn then. 

Mr. Druce was still enjoying his siesta. 
But the big Dutch clock in the gallery up- 
stairs, as it struck the hour, had awakened 
the Reverend Itliuriel from his nap. He 
dressed himself and came downstairs. A 
servant girl, passing through the hall, spied 
him on the staircase. She stopped and 
spoke to him : 


160 A College Widow . 

“ Would you go into the parlor, sir, and 
see the lady, sir ? She seems in great trouble." 

“ Who is it?" asked the Keverend Ithuriel. 

“ I don't know, sir. She asked for Mr. and 
Mrs. Curzon. I told her they were both out. 
But she insisted on seeing one or the other 
of them. Finally she made me promise to 
go over to Mrs. Leland's and get Mrs. Cur- 
zon. I wish you'd go in and see her, sir. 
There's so many queer people about nowa- 
days." 

The Reverend Ithuriel said he would, and 
the maid went off. 

On entering the parlor Mr. Ratlibone dis- 
covered a little woman with auburn curls 
sitting in an easy-chair in the corner, with 
her handkerchief to her eyes. Her attitude 
betokened deep despair. As she heard him 
enter she removed her handkerchief and 
disclosed a red nose and a tear-stained face. 
The Reverend Ithuriel's heart was touched. 

“My dear young lady, pray tell me what — 
what is the matter ?" 

At the sound of the old gentleman's kind 
voice, especially as it spoke the word 
“ young," Sadie's eyes overflowed afresh. 


A College Widow . 161 

“Oh, sir,” she sobbed into her handker- 
chief, “ I am a wronged and wretched woman. 
I have been deceived and betrayed. I have 
been insulted and outraged.” 

“My dear young lady,” said the clergy-; 
man, in great concern, “who has wronged 
you ?” 

“Your — your — your son,” sobbed Sadie. 

“My son /” 

“ Oh, don't be angry with him, sir. I am 
the one who has a right to be that. lie has 
deceived and deserted me, sir.” 

“ Deserted you?” The old gentleman 
thought he was losing his wits. 

“Yes, sir. We were married three weeks 
ago, and he abandoned me at once like a — 
like a wicked, wicked monster.” 

Sadie's last experience of Tom had con- 
vinced her there was no trusting him. Her 
only chance was to throw herself on the mercy 
of his parents, and, by exciting their sympa- 
thy, attach them to her cause against their 
graceless son. So she was as pathetic as she 
knew how to be. 

The Reverend Ithuriel sank back in a 
chair and stared at the weeping lady. Da; k 


A College Widow . 


162 

recollections sprang into his mind. He re- 
membered how some of Fred’s excuses for 
not coming down certain Sundays of last 
month had seemed at the time not quite 
satisfactory, and how Jessica, especially, had 
derided them. 

“ You married to my son?” he gasped at 
last. 

“He said you’d never forgive him. But 
you will, won’t yon ?” 

The Beverend Ithuriel groaned. Jessica! 
Good God ! Fred was a bigamist ! 

At this moment the heavy form of Mr. 
Druce was seen passing the front window. 
The Beverend Ithuriel called to him in an 
agonized tone of voice. The old gentleman 
turned and stepped into the room. 

“ My dear friend— my dear friend,” gasped 
the clergyman, “ sit down, sit down. This 
lady says she is — claims to be my son’s wife.” 

Mr. Druce sat down suddenly. A profuse 
perspiration stood out all over his face and 
bald head. 

“Yes,” said Sadie, who had taken away 
her handkerchief and was now intent only on 
establishing her claims, “we were married 


A College Widow . 


163 


three weeks ago. But he left me at once. 
He has abandoned me for another. There 
was a young lady in Syracuse that he used to 
talk about — ” 

Mr. Druce arose. Turning upon the Rev- 
erend Ithuriel, he shook his fist at him, and 
exclaimed : 

“ Then your son is an infernal scoundrel 
and villain.” 

The Reverend Ithuriel raised his hand im- 
ploringly. 

“ Do not judge him yet,” he said. Then 
turning to Sadie, he asked : 

“ When did you see my son last ?” 

“Day before yesterday, here in this room. 
He promised to take me back and introduce 
me to you as his wife. He presented me to 
young Mr. Druce — ” 

“Young Mr. Druce!” exclaimed old Mr. 
Druce. 

“Hush! she means Jessie,” interposed the 
Reverend Ithuriel, who had not understood. 

“ Yes. I do mean Jesse,” said Sadie, who 
was now bent on claiming everything. 
“ Jesse sent us down to the hotel to get my 
trunks and said my room would be ready 


164 


A College Widow . 


when we got back. On the way down I was 
seized by two men. It was all a game ar- 
ranged by your son to get rid of me. I 
have been in jail ever since, charged with 
diamond stealing. I only got out to-day, and 
Fve come here to claim my rights.” 

Here the little woman, overcome by her 
recollections, again applied herself to her 
handkerchief. During her last remarks the 
two old gentlemen had sat back in their 
chairs and gazed alternately at her and each 
other with bewildered countenances. Mr. 
Druce in particular looked as if he were go- 
ing to have an apoplectic fit. The astonish- 
ment which the two would have otherwise felt 
in the knowledge that they were in the pres- 
ence of the woman who had been arrested 
for stealing Mrs. Leland’s diamonds was en- 
tirely swallowed up in the monstrous revela- 
tions she was making about their children. 

“ Do yon mean to tell me, woman,” Mr. 
Druce at last managed to exclaim, “ that my 
Jessie aided your husband in this attempt to 
get rid of you ?” 

“ If you are Mr. Druce,” retorted Sadie, 


A College Widow . 165 

defiantly, “ I mean to tell you that your 
Jesse did just that thing. ” 

At this moment the door opened and Mrs. 
Curzon entered hastily. 

“ What is the matter?” she asked, look- 
ing around. Then to Sadie : “ Are you the 
lady who had important business with me ?” 

Both old gentlemen jumped up. 

“Mrs. Curzon,” said Mr. Druce hurriedly, 
“ please withdraw, ma’am. I and the Rev- 
erend Ithuriel have important business with 
this lady.” 

“ Mrs. Curzon !” cried Sadie. “ Then you 
are my Tom’s mother.” 

“ What !” roared both of the old gentlemen. 

“ Oh, he has deceived me and wronged me 
enough, God knows,” cried Sadie. “But 
you will see that I am righted, dear Mr. and 
Mrs. Curzon, will you not?” 

“What is the matter ?” gasped Mrs. Cur- 
zon faintly. “ Is the woman crazy ?” 

A light was beginning to break on old Mr. 
Druce. 

"Do you take him for this lady’s hus- 
band?” he asked, pointing to the Reverend 
Ithuriel. 


A College Widow . 


1 66 

“ Yes. Is he not ?” 

“ No, thank the Lord !” cried both old 
gentlemen, looking intensely relieved. Where- 
upon Mrs. Curzon bridled and looked indig- 
nantly from one to the other. 

“ Then you are not the wife of my son, 
Fred Rathbone ?” exclaimed the clergyman. 

“ No, indeed.” 

“ Who are you, then?” 

“ I am Mrs. Tom Curzon. I was married 
to him three weeks ago in Rochester. He 
was a student at the college there.” 

Mrs. Curzon tottered to a chair. She had 
some vague idea of fainting, but a circum- 
stance occurred that checked this impulse. 
The door opened and Tom Curzon walked 
into the room. 

“Tom,” cried his mother, springing up 
and seizing his arm, “tell me : is what this 
woman says true ? Were you married to her 
three weeks ago in Rochester ?” 

It was Tom’s turn to faint now, and I 
think he was prevented from doing so only 
by the entrance of his sister, followed by the 
Honorable Alfred. 

“ Tom,” cried Marion, running to him. 


A College Widow . 167 

as she caught sight of his white face, “oh, 
Tom, darling, what has happened ?” 

Then she saw Sadie and she knew. 

“ IPs all up, Mr. Pleasants, ” groaned Tom. 
“ There she is. She has split at last.” 

The Honorable Alfred took in the situation 
at a glance, and he knew it was a bad one — 
for him. But he was game enough to die 
fighting. He advanced to the middle of the 
room and addressed Mrs. Curzon: 

“ Madam,” he said, “ your son Thomas was 
married to this lady three weeks ago in 
Rochester. His life was threatened and he 
finally consented under duress. Had he re- 
fused he would undoubtedly be in his grave 
to-day.” 

“ IPs a lie !” screamed Sadie. 

“ Pardon me, madam, a moment, if you 
please,” said the Honorable Alfred politely. 
“ Such a marriage,” he continued, speaking 
to Mrs. Curzon, “ is invalid in law. I, acting 
for your son, madam, have instituted pro- 
ceedings in the Supreme Court of New York 
City, your son’s domicile, looking towards the 
rescinding of this marriage contract so fraudu- 


A College Widozv. 


1 68 

lently obtained. The woman’s father has 
consented that it shall be rescinded.” 

“ But I have not/’ interposed Sadie. 

“ You may make some trouble and delay/* 
the congressman retorted calmly, “but the 
marriage will be annulled whether or no. 
Now, Mrs. Curzon, we had hoped — your 
children and I — that all this could be done 
without the facts coming to your ears. It was 
our intention that your feelings should be 
spared these painful revelations. I am sorry 
that we were not permitted to succeed. But 
I give you my word of honor that your son’s 
marriage is void, and shall be declared so. 
And now, madam,” he continued, turning to 
Sadie, “ will you tell me how it happens 
you have broken the agreement you and 
your father entered into with me a week ago 
at your home in Rochester, not to interfere 
in the proceedings which were about to be 
instituted to set Mr. Curzon free from his 
fraudulent marriage ?” 

“The little Sorrel-top” saw that she w r as 
being forced into a corner. She at once J ;ook 
to tears and theatricals. 

“ Wretched man !” she cried, “ do not 


A College Widow . 169 

speak to me. You, aided by my dear but 
weak-spirited father, would have persuaded 
me to compromise myself — to surrender for 
a mess of potage the rights which God and 
the laws of my country had given me. But 
thank Heaven for sending me a friend and 
adviser in the hour of my necessity!” 

This last sentence was spoken with a dram- 
atic lift of the speaker's small eyes in the 
direction of the chandelier. 

“And what did this kind friend advise, 
might I ask ?” 

This from the Honorable Alfred in his 
smoothest accents. 

“ He told me that I had no right to do as 
I was doing. He advised me to come here 
at once and claim my husband.” 

“ Who in thunder was he ?” blurted out 
Tom. 

“ He was the same kind friend,” retorted 
Sadie, turning upon her truant husband with 
a fine burst of scorn, “ who, when yoii had 
abandoned me to a dungeon cell, came to me 
and caused my shackles to be struck off. He 
lifted me up and set me free.” 


170 A College Widow . 

The little woman in her enthusiasm was 
becoming quite declamatory. 

“ So he got you out of jail, too,” sneered 
Tom. 

“ Don%” whispered Marion ; “ remember, 
she^s a woman. ” 

“ Would you mind saying what his name 
might be?” inquired the Honorable Alfred 
gravely. 

“ No,” quoth Sadie, becoming almost tragic 
as she pursued the theme. “ He is not one 
to hide himself. He is not one to fight a 
woman from behind a cover. He is a brave, 
a free, a noble man. That is his name.” 

She had taken a card from her purse and 
looked at* it as she spoke. She now threw 
it towards the Curzon party, who stood op- 
posite her. It fell on the floor. Tom picked 
it up. 

“ Henry Vernay !” he exclaimed. 

At the same moment a ring at the door-bell 
was heard. A maid put her head in at the 
room and announced : 

“Mr. Vernay.” 

And the Major walked into the room. 


A College Widow . 


171 


CHAPTER XI. 

It would have taken the pen of a Homer 
(supposing the blind bard to have possessed 
one) and the pencil of a Hogarth to have 
pictured the feelings and faces of the assem- 
bled company at the entrance of the more 
or less unconscious Yernay. For a minute 
there was complete silence. Sadie was the 
first to break it. 

' “My chivalrous preserver!” she cried, ad- 
vancing a step. “Again he comes to my 
assistance in the hour of my need.” 

But the Major did not act a bit chival- 
rously, I am sorry to say. He simply nodded 
and said he hoped she was quite well. Then 
Tom came at him. 

“Major Vernay,” he said, “I knew 1 
ought not to have given you my confidence, 
but I didnT think you would have been such 
a blackguard as to violate it so brutally. 
You are not a gentleman.” 

Tom was, as he would have expressed it, 


172 


A College Widow . 


“ fighting mad.” Goaded as he had been by 
his troubles, he felt disposed to proceed to 
the last extremities. Vernay's eyes kindled 
slightly. 

“Hard words those,” was all he said. 
“You forget, don't you?” glancing at the 
three ladies. “ But never mind, you'll be 
sorry, I think, presently.” 

“ Then why did you betray me to my wife 
when you knew how anxious I was to keep 
out of her way ?” 

Mrs. Curzon's harsh looks seemed to repeat 
the inquiry. Marion stood beside her brother. 
Her angry eyes took it up and emphasized it. 
Why indeed ? 

“ Your wife ?” was Yernay's only response, 
looking him full in the face, and smiling 
slightly. 

“You knew that I expected to get a di- 
vorce, and that it was of the last importance 
that I should keep out of her way. You 
knew that I wished my mother to be kept in 
ignorance of the existence of my marriage 
until it was annulled.” 

“ Your marriage ?” said Vernay, with the 
same peculiar smile. 


A College Widow . 


173 


“ You knew that we wanted to save my 
mother's feelings, my sister and I, and yet 
you, after worming yourself into my confi- 
dence in a sneaking, underhand way, you go 
and instigate my wife to come down upon 
me. It was a contemptible and cowardly 
action." 

The Major looked at Tom pleasantly. 

There was a gleam of pity and a tinge of 
scorn in the look. He was such a weak and 
selfish lad, but, after all, he was her brother. 

“ All you say is true — " he was beginning, 
when Marion flashed out upon him. 

“ How dare you then, sir, present yourself 
here ?" 

He turned the same pleasant face to the 
angry girl. But the pity and scorn had van- 
ished. In their place was an infinite tender- 
ness . — “ All but one thing," he proceeded, 
resuming his speech : “ I have never instig- 
ated your wife to come down on you." 

“ Oh, Mr. Vernay," cried Sadie, “ how can 
you say so, when you know you came to me 
and told me it was my duty to stick to my 
husband ?" 

“ Hid you do that ?" Marion's great eyes 


174 


A College Widozv . 


seemed to ask of him with such a light of 
hope in them. 

“Yes, I did that/* said the Major, and 
the light went out. “But/* turning to 
Tom, “all the same I have not brought 
your wife down on you.** 

“ What do you mean, then ?** cried Sadie. 
“I was married to him three weeks ago yes- 
terday by the Reverend Mr. Burton of the 
Foundry Methodist Church in our town. 
Who denies that ?** 

“ I do not. But I say that you had no 
right to marry him. The fact is, Mrs. Dean, 
your first husband was alive.** 

“ Mrs. Dean ?** gasped Sadie. 

“Your husband, Mr. Louis Razzle Dean, 
was and is alive, and you are no more Mr. 
Curzon*s wife then you are mine.** 

As he said this he turned and looked at 
the Honorable Alfred. To judge from his 
face, that gentleman*s sensations must have 
been of a mottled character. From the mo- 
ment Major Yernay had entered the room 
and he had seen the confident look on his 
face he had known the game was up. He 
• had experienced a moment of intense rage 


A College Widow . 175 

at first. It was the brute instinct of the an- 
imal robbed of its prey. He felt like turning 
and rending the adversary who had beaten 
him. But his philosophy and his discretion 
came to his aid. After the first moment of 
intense chagrin his mind cleared. He had 
deliberated what he should do when the final 
avowal, which he knew was approaching, 
came, and he had made up his mind. So 
when Yernay looked at him with that quiz- 
zical smile, he picked up his hat, and, turning 
to the others, said : 

“ Excuse me, but I really can’t spare time 
to hear any more of this. Tom, when you 
know what the upshot of it all is, you may 
come to me at the hotel and tell me, if you 
like. At present I wish you all good-morn- 
ing. Good- morning,” he repeated hastily, 
as he stumbled out into the hall. 

As the Honorable Alfred passed out of the 
house and out of this story a comforting re- 
flection came to him. It was the same that 
had consoled Mrs. Curzon. There were many 
other good fish in the sea. For he awoke on 
a sudden to the knowledge that he had all 
along been laboring under a mistake. He 


1 76 


A College Widow . 


did not love Marion Curzon. He only cov- 
eted her with that strong greed for ownership 
that maybe expected to be felt by a bachelor 
of forty-five who has spent half his life in 
acquiring property. But it was not love. 

When he had gone Vernay glanced around. 
There was evidently a great change in the 
mental atmosphere. Mrs. Curzon was silent, 
but the frown had departed from her brow. 
Tonrs face was red and white by turns. The 
light of hope was blazing high in Marion’s 
great gray eyes. The two old gentlemen were 
smiling and interested spectators of the 
scene. Sadie stood upon the defensive. 

“ I have told you, madam,” he said to her, 
“ that your first husband, Mr. Louis Razzle 
Dean, is alive. Not only that, but he is up 
at the hotel — the West End — at this mo- 
ment. Not only that, but your father is also 
there. Not only that, but your father and 
husband are reconciled, and your husband is 
waiting to take you to his arms and to re- 
sume those marital duties which he is now 
sorry he ever renounced. You have accepted 
and acted upon my advice twice before. 
May I beg of yon to act upon it for the third 


A College Widow . 


177 


and last time — and to return to the bosom of 
your family ?” 

He accompanied this request with a gesture 
so polite and yet so suggestive that Sadie felt 
there was nothing to do but acquiesce. She 
tried to get across the apartment gracefully ; 
but she was conscious of a lamentable failure. 
And this is probably why she stopped before 
Tom and exclaimed, “ I hate you, you baby,” 
and then rushed from the room. 

When she had gone there was a moment’s 
silence. Then Mrs. Curzon said : 

“If you don’t mind, Major Yernay, I 
should like to know what all this means. I 
have had so much explained to me during the 
past hour that I feel a little dazed. Never- 
theless,” smiling, “I will try to understand.” 

“ I will endeavor to make my story as short 
as possible,” said Major Yernay. “But we 
had better take seats while I tell it.” 

“ Some time ago,” he proceeded, when 
they were all seated, “I learned from your 
son, as he has told you, of his unfortunate 
marriage. There were reasons which I need 
not state, but which were strong enough to 
move me to take the course I did. I deter- 


i ;8 


A College Widow . 


mined, if it were possible, to get your son out 
of his scrape, but, also for reasons which I 
cannot state, I preferred to say nothing to 
him of my purpose at that time. I went at 
once to Rochester to find out what kind of 
people the Sitgreaves were. My belief was 
that there must be something in the anteced- 
ents of a family that would play such a trick 
as these people played on your son, that 
would give me a hold on them. I took 
a New York detective with me, and we were 
not long in finding out that twenty years ago 
the Sitgreaves girl had been married to a 
student named Dean. Then we discovered 
with some difficulty the marriage record. 
She had married one Louis R. Dean. The 
question was, was this man alive. To get in- 
formation upon which to trace him I searched 
the college records and also looked up the old 
college professors and servants. On the ma- 
triculation papers of this student I found his 
full name, Louis Razzle Dean. This gave 
me the clew I wanted. I knew Mr. Pleasant s* 
secretary, and Razzle was so peculiar a name 
that I believed I had the correct cue, espe- 
cially as he was of about the right age. Then 


A College Widow . 


179 


we found an old janitor who said he remem- 
bered Dean because he was always spouting 
Shakespeare. He said he was dark and tall. 
I brought him to Long Branch. He said he 
believed Razzle to be Dean, but would not 
swear to it. But when I found out that 
Razzle’s first name was Louis, and that he 
had been an actor, I felt morally certain he 
was my man. I did not dare to charge him 
with it, though. He would deny it, of 
course. My only hope was to bring him face 
to face with the Sitgreaveses in such a way 
that denial would be impossible. I went 
back to Rochester, leaving the detective to 
watch Razzle. There I found that Mr. Pleas- 
ants had been negotiating with the Sit- 
greaveses. The father was expecting to make 
a lot of money out of him. I knew he would 
be hopeless, but I managed to make the ac- 
quaintance of the daughter. I found her 
not altogether mercenary and quite romantic. 
I succeeded in persuading her that she ought 
to come here and look after her husband. I 
had it all arranged that she should meet him 
under such circumstances as would make de- 
nial impossible, but my plan was defeated by 


180 A College Widow . 

the stupidity of the police, aided by certain 
over-zealous people, of whom I shall say noth- 
ing at present.” 

Here he looked quizzically at Tom, who 
blushed. The old gentlemen laughed and 
wagged their heads at the culprit. 

“ What is it ?” asked Mrs. Curzon. 

“ Never mind, mother,” said Tom, “I’ll 
tell you by-and-by. Let us hear the story 
out.” 

“That evening I learned that Pleasants 
had telegraphed Mr. Sitgreaves to come on. 
At the same time Razzle disappeared. My 
man tracked him to the city and there lost 
sight of him. I was in despair, but as a for- 
lorn hope I put a force of men at work ex- 
amining every hotel register in the city, big 
and little. They were to look for the sec- 
retary under both names, Dean and Razzle. 
At last we found him at three o’clock yester- 
day morning in a small hotel near the Grand 
Union Depot, under the name of ‘L. Dean.’ 
He was kept under surveillance from that 
time. The next day I watched every express 
train that came from Syracuse. During a 
long interval between two trains I visited 


A College Widow . 181 

Ludlow Street jail, saw the alleged diamond- 
thief, and promised to get her out if she 
would agree not to come down here until I 
gave the word. She promised this, and I put 
things in train to secure her release on bail, 
but found it could not be accomplished until 
this morning. I watched all yesterday even- 
ing and last night for Sitgreaves, but he did 
not reach New York until eight o'clock this 
morning. I accosted him, introduced myself 
as a friend of Mr. Pleasants, and took him to 
the hotel where Razzle was. When the two 
were brought face to face there was a scene. 
Old Sitgreaves recognized his son-in-law at 
once. He was disposed to assault him at first, 
partly for the crime of having disappeared 
twenty years ago, and partly for the crime of 
appearing to-day. I can't tell you how it 
was managed," said Vernay, laughing, “ but 
I succeeded in reconciling them at last. Dean 
agreed to go back to his wife, and Sitgreaves 
was persuaded to forgive his runaway son-in- 
law. But all this had taken time. It was 
twelve o'clock before I got down to Ludlow 
Street, and then I found that my bird had 
flown. She had been released on the bail I 


182 


A College Widow . 


had procured for her and had come straight 
down here. It was to this accident that you 
owe the unfortunate visit which she has re- 
cently paid you. Could I have reached here 
in time I might have spared you all that. 
That is all of the story. ** 

“And Mr. Pleasants* sudden leavetak- 
ing ?** asked Mrs. Curzon. “ Why was that ?** 
“ He was, of course, a party to the decep- 
tion that was being practised on your son. 
Razzle confessed that to me coming down 
on the boat.** 

“Hem!** said the widow. 

“Well, 1*11 be — blessed!** exclaimed Tom. 
“ What did he want to spend all that money 
for if he knew ? — Oh !** 

A sudden light broke in on the young man. 
He glanced at his sister. Vernay*s eyes fol- 
lowed his. The glorious beacons of hope 
were veiled by their milk-white lids. 

“ Well,** said he, starting up, “ Fve caused 
a deal of trouble. But I meant well. Will 
you forgive me ?** 

“ I will,** said the widow, magnanimously ; 
for, after all, had he not deprived her of a 
millionaire son-in-law ? 


A College Widow . 


183 


“ You’re a mighty smart fellow, Major,” 
said Mr. Druce. “ That’s what I think 
about it.” 

“ My dear Major Yernay, you have behaved 
admirably, most admirably,” was the Kever- 
end Ithuriel’s comment. 

“ If you’ll come out behind the house,” 
was blunt Tom’s way of expressing his feel- 
ings, as he grasped the Major’s hand in both 
of his, “you may kick me all over the lot 
and I wont say a word.” 

Y ernay looked at Marion. The milk-white 
lids were raised, and the glorious eyes were 
blazing with a light that filled his soul with 
joy and peace and hope. 


A College Widow . 


184 


CHAPTER XII. 

There is not much more to tell. Those 
who have followed this story so far may be 
able to guess the rest. And yet I suspect 
that all things did not in truth turn out 
quite as my readers have arranged them. 

As they have supposed, Mr. Louis Razzle 
Dean and his long-lost bride retired to Roch- 
ester and continued to live with the good 
old man their father. It was not long before 
the latter was greeted by a missive from a 
firm of lawyers in New York stating that Mr. 
Alfred Pleasants, their client, had instructed 
them to make a demand for the repayment 
of a certain sum of money had and received 
by Mr. Sitgreaves from the said Pleasants, 
to wit, $5000, and in default of such pay- 
ment to bring suit for the same. 

The good old gentleman declined to be 
robbed of his hard-earned wealth, and suit 
was thereupon brought. This action on the 
part of Mr. Pleasants highly exasperated old 


A College Widow . 


185 


Mr. Sifcgreayes. The rage that he had been 
thrown into by the return of the prodigal, 
added to the indignation he' had felt at the 
indignity put upon his daughter (which had, 
by the way, been salved over by certain sooth- 
ing applications of bank-notes which Mr. 
Druce had administered to save his son-in- 
law from trouble), and the irritation caused 
by Sadie's conduct in breaking the agreement 
and so losing for him the prospective profits 
to be made out of Pleasants, were now all 
brought to a head by the lawsuit. The good 
old man began to see himself in danger of 
being mulcted of some of that wealth which 
he had labored so hard to acquire. He 
brooded so much over this that by-and-by he 
fell into a fever from which he never re- 
covered. He passed away the following win- 
ter to that realm in which matrimonial 
matches are not made, even by the aid of 
fire-arms, and he was buried with much pomp 
by his sorrowing daughter, aided by the mem- 
bers of the political organization in which he 
had been for years a potent factor. 

The Honorable Alfred, his romance over 
and ended, devoted himself to politics with 


A College Widow . 


1 86 

renewed vigor. But lie found himself very 
much handicapped by the loss of his astute 
secretary. So when he heard of the death 
of Mr. Sitgreaves he made overtures to Mr. 
Bazzle to return to him. He offered to dis- 
continue the suit against Sitgreaves, or rather 
not to renew it against his personal represen- 
tatives, and to be very generous with him in 
the matter of salary, if he would return. 
His proposition was finally accepted, and 
since then Mrs. Razzle-Dean has become a 
“ blazing” favorite in certain circles of society 
at the national capital. I quote the adjective 
from her husband’s description of her and 
her social triumphs. She amuses Mr. Razzle 
very much, and she is quite good-natured. 
The two get along very comfortably and 
happily together. I may add that there is 
now a little Alfred Razzle Dean, aged three, 
and that the last time I saw his father he 
was facetiously warming his hands at the 
boy’s head. 

“ French Joanna” has not been captured 
up to the latest advices. Mrs. Leland’s dia- 
monds have doubtless long before this been 
dispersed, and are now being worn by other 


A College Widow. - 187 

fashionable fair ones in various parts of the 
world, while the finest police the sun ever 
looked upon have added another to their 
long list of conundrums without answers. 

The very unfilial conduct of Jessica and 
Fred caused the Druce cottage to be closed 
several weeks before the time fixed. Both 
of the fathers were in a hurry to be reunited 
to their children. The Keverend Ithurial 
also thought that it would be better to face 
the music of his parishioners as soon as 
possible. Mr. Druce accordingly asked Mrs. 
Curzon if she and her family wouldn't return 
and spend the rest of the summer with him 
in Syracuse. Jessica supplicated Marion by 
letter, and Fred wrote to Tom that he must 
assuredly urge his mother to come, as there 
were certain business arrangements that 
could be made highly advantageous to him, 
Tom, if they could only all get together and 
talk things over. This latter consideration 
decided Mrs. Curzon, and within a week 
after the occurrences in the last chapter our 
friends found themselves in Syracuse again. 
Major Vernay had betaken himself to his 
office in the city the day after. 


A College Widoiv. 


1 88 

The business arrangement which Fred had 
to propose was that Tom should come into 
the firm and take a quarter interest, which 
Mr. Druce should carry for him until he had 
paid for it out of his share of the profits. He 
and Jessica had talked this over, and the 
latter answered for her papa. So the next 
day after they arrived Fred and Mr. Druce 
formally made the offer to Tom, accompanied, 
of course, by the condition that Major Vernay 
should consent. Tom accepted at once and 
went off in high glee to tell his sister. But 
when Marion heard him she became very 
grave. 

“ Tom,” she said, earnestly, “you must 
decline.” 

“ What ?” shouted Tom. 

“ You must decline.” 

“ Nonsense. Why ? What ? s the matter ?” 

“ Oh, Tom, dear, I could not bear that you 
should accept this offer.” 

She averted her head and pressed the 
palms of her hands to her face, while Tom 
looked at her wonderingly. When she turned 
to him again there was the gleam of tears in 
her eyes. 


A College Widow . 189 

“Promise me,” she whispered. 

“ But can’t you give me a reason ?” 

She looked at him through her tears and 
shook her head. Tom scratched the nape of 
his neck and turned away. When he had 
thought a moment he faced her again and 
said : 

“All right, little one — no banker and 
broker for me.” 

Marion stooped and kissed his hand. 

“ And Tom, dear — does mother know ?” 

“ No.” 

“You’ll see that she doesn’t ?” 

“ Yes.” 

She kissed his hand again and slipped 
away from him. So Tom hunted up Fred 
and said to him : 

“ It’s no use, Rathbone, I’ve got to decline 
your offer, though it breaks me all up to 
have to do so.” 

“Hello! what’s the matter ?” 

“ Why, it’s this way. I’m awfully obliged 
to you and Mr. Druce for giving me the 
chance, and if I had my way I’d accept it, 
of course. But my sister has asked me to 
decline, and I promised her I would.” 


A College Widow . 


190 

“ But what reason can she possibly have?” 
demanded Fred, astonished in his turn. 

“ She won’t give any reason. I suppose 
it’s some sentimental fal-lal about not being 
so much beholden to others. She’s a proud 
little thing. And I say, see here, Bathbone, 
I don’t want my mother to know that this 
offer has been made and declined. Will you 
arrange that with your wife and Mr. Druce?” 

“ I will, but I’m awfully sorry, old fellow.” 

“So am I, old man. But I can’t go 
against the little one in this.” 

When Jessica heard what had happened 
she went to Marion and labored long and 
earnestly with her to get her to change her 
mind, or at least to give some good reason 
for her objection. But Marion would do 
neither, and begged her friend so piteously 
to give up the idea that at last Jessica re- 
lented. 

“You’re a strange little thing, May,” she 
said, “ but you’re just a darling, all the same. 
We shall have to try something else ; for I’m 
not going to lose you, whatever happens.” 

Meanwhile a luminous idea had entered 
the brain of Mr. Frederick Bathbone. He 


A College Widow. 19 1 

believed he had discovered what was the 
“ sentimental fal-lal” that influenced Tom's 
sister, and he believed that Tom was alto- 
gether mistaken as to the character of it. Ac- 
cordingly, when his wife returned to him, he 
broached his idea to her, and the two entered 
into a long discussion of the same. The re- 
sult was that Fred despatched a carefully pre- 
pared letter to his partner, which had in its 
turn the effect of producing that gentleman 
in Syracuse a few mornings after, where he 
occupied his accustomed room in the Rath- 
bone house. 

In the afternoon he called and sent up his 
card to Marion. She was sitting in Jessica's 
room with that matron when the maid 
brought it to her. She looked at it and then 
glanced hurriedly at Jessica. 

“ Who is it?'' asked the latter, demurely. 

“ Mr. Vernay.” 

“The Major? Dear me, when did he 
come ?'' Young Mrs. Rathbone enacted sur- 
prise charmingly, with eyes and hands. 

“ Did he ask for me, Jane?'' 

“ No, miss, only for Miss Curzon." 

“ That shows you, May, what it is to get 


192 


A College Widow . 


married," commented the young lady with 
great good-humor — “nobody ever wants to 
see you any more." 

Marion rose, glanced hurriedly into the 
dressing-table mirror, and passed into her 
own room. A few moments afterward she 
descended the stairs to her visitor. He re- 
ceived her very gravely. There was a busi- 
ness-like air about him which was explained 
by his first words, after their formal greetings 
had been exchanged. 

“ It has come to my ears," said Major 
Vernay, when they were seated, “that my 
partners, Messrs. Druce and Rathbone, have 
offered your brother a share in our firm, on 
certain conditions, one of which is that I, 
the remaining partner, consent." 

Marion moved uneasily in her chair, and 
there was a fluttering of her hands that did 
not escape her caller’s notice. 

“ I have also been informed," Vernay went 
on, with business-like precision, “ that your 
brother has been induced to decline this offer 
at your instance." 

The fluttering of the hands increased, and 
their owner was evidently about to speak, but 
Vernay proceeded: 


A College Widow. ! 93 

« My partners are very anxious to bring 
about this arrangement, and they fear that it 
is I who stand in their way. They have asked 
me for my consent, and I have told them 
that I shall be very glad to oblige them.” 

The fluttering hands were still and clasped 
in the young girl’s lap. 

“ If therefore, Miss Curzon, it was any fear 
on your part that this proposed action would 
be detrimental to me that led you to protest, 
let me disabuse your mind of that idea at 
once.” 

He paused and waited. Presently ' she 
looked up and said : 

“ That — that idea— had come to me. I 
feared that you all three would be robbing 
yourselves to give Tom a share. That we 
could not submit to. You are quite— quite 
sure that this is not so ?” 

“ Absolutely. Your brother will earn his 
share by hard work, if he gets it at all.” 

Marion sighed and looked relieved. 

“ I am glad of that,” she said. They 
did not intend, then, to bestow a kindness 
which would have been something so so dif- 
ferent, It was really a fair, business offer ?” 


194 M College Widow . 

“ Perfectly so. And so understanding it, 
you accept ?” 

“ No — no. I cannot.” 

“ You would -not give your reasons to your 
friends. I suppose it is useless forme to ask 
them?” 

She bowed her head. He rose and turned 
to take his hat. As he faced her again she 
had risen. Her hands were clasped and the 
little fingers were writhing over each other 
helplessly. It was an action that indicated 
• great excitement or great anguish. Vernay 
advanced a step toward her. 

“ Miss Curzon,” he said — his voice was 
hoarse now and had lost its business-like pre- 
cision — “ if — if I were not a member of this 
firm you would let your brother accept ?” 

She was silent, but the white fingers still 
« clutched each other spasmodically. 

“Would you?” 

“Oh, why do you press me so?” she cried 
at Iasi, throwing up her hands. “Ho you 
want me to lie to you ?” 

“ Then it is so ?” 

“Yes, it is so,” she said, desperated. 
“ My brother and I have been vile enough to 


A College Widow . 


195 


you already. You must not ask us to be- 
come more vile by accepting this favor at 
your hands. For it is a favor, I know, not- 
withstanding all you say.” 

“ You f vile’ to me ?” A ring was creeping 
into the Major’s voice and a light was creep- 
ing into the Major’s eyes. “ What do you 
mean ?” 

But the white fingers were clutching each 
other again and the trembling lips were 
silent. 

“ Miss Curzon,” Vernay continued, draw- 
ing toward her, “I once offered you my love 
and you said it was an insult. It is a diffi- 
cult thing for a proud man to offer himself 
to a woman who has once repulsed him. But 
you are very, very dear to me. I cannot be- 
lieve either that you quite despise me. Do 
you ?” 

There was the same swaying motion of the 
young form that he had before noticed, fol- 
lowed by the same shrinking away from him. 
Then she raised her head and said calmly, 
looking him straight in the face : 

“ I despise — myself.” 

“ Miss Curzon — you must not say that.” 


196 


A College Widow. 


“ Listen. To save my brothers life from 
ruin I would have married that — that man — 
down there — at the sea-shore.” 

“ It was a very noble action.” 

“ I would have given myself — myself,” with 
a desperate throwing out of the hands, “ to 
him — to a man I hated. I was rescued from 
that fate at the last moment. I did not be- 
come that thing.. But I meant it. I thought 
it. Oh, can you not see ? I am too vile — too 
vile — to think of marriage.” 

The light was very bright in the Major’s 
eyes now. 

“You will marry the man you love,” he 
said, gently, bending over her. 

Her only answer was to sink into the chair 
that stood by her side with her face in her 
hands. But the Major was on his knee be- 
fore her, and his strong fingers pulled the 
little hands from before her eyes. The next 
moment she was in his arms weeping her 
whole soul out upon his breast. 

And Ye may’s face was very, very triumph- 
ant as he looked down upon her. 


A College Widow . 


197 


AUTHOR’S NOTE. 

It may be that some of my friends who are 
learned in the law, and who do me the honor to 
read my story, will criticise me for blundering in 
my understanding of the legal question involved. 
Certainly I make my characters proceed upon the 
assumption that the marriage between Tom Curzon 
and Miss Sitgreaves was void ah initio because of 
her previous marriage. And so at common law it 
was. Some of the States have altered this rule, 
however, and among others New York. A pro- 
vision of Chapter viii, Title 1, Article 1, of the laws 
of that State, declares that : 

“ If any person, whose husband or wife shall have 
absented himself or herself for the space of five suc- 
cessive years, without being known to such person 
to be living during that time, shall marry during 
the lifetime of such absent husband or wife, the 
marriage shall be void only from the time that its 
nullity shall be pronounced by a court of competent 
authority. ” 

From the above it would appear that Tom’s second 
marriage was binding, though there seems to be still 
some conflict of authority on this point (Spicer vs. 
Spicer, Abbott’s Practice Reports, N. S., vol. 16, 
pp. 112-1*28). But the better authority holds that 
such a marriage would be voidable, not void (Wait 
vs. Wait, 4 Barbour). According to this decision 
Tom would still have had to go into court, where, 


A College Widow. 


198 

upon presenting proof of Mr. Razzle’s existence, a 
decree would have issued for the annulment of 11 is 
marriage. This is probably the course he pur- 
sued. But the reappearance of Razzle operated 
las a release to him at all events, whether at com- 
mon law or under the statute. I preferred, there- 
fore, to leave Major Yernay in ignorance of this 
point, and to have him understand the ease as it 
would be at common law. By this means I secure 
for the Major a more dramatic situation, though at 
some expense to his reputation as a person of wide 
and varied information. 


August 1, 1889. 


The Author. 

































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